Blast from the Past
by FraidyCat
Summary: AU SPN fic in which Sam is now an attorney, and must call upon his family for help. Will he get back into hunting after 15 years of a "normal" life? Possible character death.
1. Chapter 1

**Blast from the Past**

**by FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer:** All things Supernatural owned and operated by CW, Eric Kripke, et al.

**A/N:** I have never done this before — we have here an AU fic. (I am most pleased with the boys in their current state, so I have no idea where this came from.) Although the majority of my fanfic is complete before I begin to post, I think I may need to be more responsive to reviewers on this one, so this is a write-as-you-post story. (However, I can proudly assure the reader that I have never started a story that I did not finish, and I have well over 100 stories in my fanfic account.)

In this universe, Dean never went to Stanford to collect Sam, and Jess was not a Yellow Demon vic (therefore, there was no supernatural death to drive Sam back to hunting). Jess may or may not make an appearance. Sam followed his chosen path: he was accepted by Stanford Law, and is now an attorney. One of his clients is accused of murder, and claims innocence; Sam becomes convinced that he is telling the truth, and something supernatural is really responsible. Eventually, he asks for his family's help. (P.S., John and Bobby are also not dead, because the series never happened.)

Whew. There you have it. Good luck to us all.

**Chapter 1: Not This Again**

Sam was still frowning as the officer pushed his handgun over the counter.

"Not sure I should give this back to you with that look on your face," teased the sergeant.

Sam's face relaxed as he retrieved the gun and opened his briefcase to lock the gun inside. "Not planning any ambushes, Al. I promise. Just a bad client visit." He clicked the case closed and shrugged. "So another normal day, basically."

The sergeant laughed. "Counselor, give yourself a break. Sanderson is one bad dude. The way he killed those little girls…"

Sam interrupted, raising his eyebrows. "Hey, hey — innocent until proven guilty, remember?"

The sergeant snorted. "Yeah, sure,", then changed the subject. "Hey, tell me about that piece you got there — not your usual Glock."

"No," Sam agreed. "The Glock needs some work on the site. Until I have time to work on it, I'm carrying the Ruger. Ex-wife used to carry it, but she didn't take the gun with her when she left." Sam snorted. "Maybe her friend offered her a bigger weapon."

The sergeant guffawed loudly. "Somehow I doubt that," the officer finally said. "I swear, Winchester, you have more guns than I do."

Sam smiled. "Just a few," he answered. "I like to target shoot."

The sergeant raised an eyebrow. "Run into many targets between the jail and your office?"

Sam smiled again. "Can't be too careful, Al. Even Portland has an unsavory element. Seriously, I just got so used to guns when I was a kid — I feel naked without one."

The female officer looked Sam up and down, smiling. "Well, we wouldn't want that now, would we?"

Sam stepped back from the counter, deciding that it was time to go. "See you soon, Allison. I'll probably be back tomorrow to see my client."

"Looking forward to it, Winchester," the sergeant drawled. "I'll put it on my calendar right now."

Sam laughed, lifted a hand in salute, and turned to leave. Immediately, the frown returned to his face, and he walked slowly as he worked his way through the county jail, finally exiting into Portland's balmy spring weather. He blinked as the sunlight greeted him, squinting until his eyes got used to being outside again, and made his way down the sidewalk, eventually sinking onto an empty concrete bench. He laid the briefcase beside him on the bench and remembered his conversation with Sanderson.

"_I'll see what the D.A. is willing to give us, but frankly, Jeff, you might want to plead guilty. The evidence against you is pretty compelling."_

_Jeff Sanderson shook his head. "No way, man. I'm not going inside as a child killer. I swear, I'll find a way to take myself out first. Besides, I didn't kill those girls — and I won't say that I did!"_

_Sam, suddenly glad that his client was already on suicide watch, held up a hand and spoke gently. "Okay, okay, come on. If you feel that strongly about it, of course we'll go with a plea of innocence." He lowered his hand to the table between them and leaned forward a little. "But you need to understand that we have to refute all of that evidence. The blood on your clothes and your hands. The hair samples. The fingerprints."_

_Sanderson looked away. "I never said that I didn't see the girls," he mumbled before looking back at Sam, his expression earnest. "But I swear, Mr. Winchester, that thing — I mean — they were dead when I got there. All that stuff you're talking about, I must have done all that when I was checking to see if they were still alive."_

_Sam frowned. "Wait, what? You started to say, 'that thing'…"_

_Silence descended upon the room. Sam waited. Finally Sanderson shrugged. "You won't believe me. Cops didn't. Public defender didn't. My old man can't pay you enough money — you won't, either."_

_Sam settled back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "Try me."_

_His client stared at him, blinking twice. He held his hands together, wringing them on the table. "I was watching," he finally admitted. "In the park, from the trees. I have a favorite spot there, because I watch…I watch little girls, sometimes."_

_Sam repressed his disgust, thinking of his 5-year-old step-daughter, now living in Los Angeles with her mother and newest stepfather. Hard to believe she might actually be safer in L.A. "Go on," was all he said._

_The hand wringing continued. "I swear, I've never touched any of them. I just like to watch them play. So innocent."_

_Sam interrupted, unable to listen to much more. "And?"_

_Sanderson regrouped. He told this part of his story quickly, sure that Sam wouldn't believe him. "And, I was just about to leave when I heard a noise in the trees to my left. This… this thing…suddenly burst into the clearing. The girls started to scream, but it picked one up with each…hand, I guess…and slammed their heads into tree trunks. Killed 'em both right then, I was pretty sure. Then it threw them on the ground, jumped on top of them, and started…hell, man, I think it was __feeding__, or something."_

_Sam dropped his arms, leaning forward again. "So why did it leave?"_

_Sanderson looked a little surprised at the question. He'd never gotten this far into the story, before. "Well…well, I guess I made a noise or something. Shock, Maybe I was even screaming. It looked around, and I thought it was coming for me, then — so I dropped to the ground, rolled as far under the foliage as I could, and waited to die. I don't know how much time passed, but I heard a noise from the other side of the clearing — like it was leaving. I waited a few minutes, then peaked out. The girls were just lying there alone, all bloody. I didn't think either of them was alive, but I went to check. I touched them both, There was blood all over on the ground, I had to kneel in it."_

"_There was blood on your shirt," Sam pointed out._

_Sanderson paled. "One girl. One girl, she was…her chest was ripped open, and, and, I didn't know how to help her — but she was still alive. Dying. Blood was spurting out. Spurting. Just for a few seconds — then it stopped. She died, I guess."_

_Sam had heard enough about the girls. He was starting to feel a little sick. "What did the thing look like?"_

_Sanderson's hands stopped wringing, and his mouth gaped open for a moment. Did this guy believe any of this? "H-hairy," he finally answered. "Tall. Walked on two legs, had two arms, but it wasn't human. Not unless some gigantic guy in a hair costume is stalking the woods."_

_Wendigo__, Sam thought to himself. He stalled for time while he opened his briefcase, cleared his throat. "Okay," he said, grabbing a sheaf of paperwork. "Let…let me tell you what's going to happen at tomorrow's hearing."_

Now he sat on the bench and toyed will the cell phone he had taken from his pocket. After a few minutes, he depressed the "1", then put the phone to his ear.

The call was picked up during the third ring. "Hey, Sammy." Sam smiled fondly at the old nickname, something no one but his brother had ever dared to call him.

"Hi, Dean. Where are you?"

"St. Louis. Dad and I just ganked a vampire nest. Small one. Kind-of boring. How you doin'?"

Sam rolled his eyes. Only Dean would be bored by vampires.

"I'm okay," he answered truthfully. "Tina still calls me, sometimes — but she'll forget me. She's only 5."

Dean snorted. "You'll always be her favorite giant, Sam." Sam shivered, Dean's use of the word "giant" reminding him why he had called.

"Listen. Dean. I know this sounds crazy…but…well…can you guys come to Portland?"

Dean paused. "They've been gone six months, Sam. You still that broken up about it?"

Sam shook his head impatiently. "No, no, it's not that."

"Sam…" Dean's warning tone.

"Really. I'm okay. God, is Dad there? Let me talk to Dad."

Dean laughed. "Gotta tell you, Sam, it's always good to hear you say that. Seriously, why do you need us in Portland if everything's okay?"

Sam sighed. "I said that _I'm okay_, not that _everything's_ okay," he nitpicked.

Dean sighed back. "So what is it?"

"I have a client," Sam began. "Long story short — I think I have a job for you. I'd do it myself, but I'm pretty out of practice, and there should probably be some back-up."

Dean was silent for so long that Sam was afraid one of their cells had dropped the call. He was about to check his own, when his brother answered. "What? You've got a what?"

"A job," Sam answered. "Your kind of job."

"Dad!" Sam heard Dean yell. "Pack it up. We're going to Portland."

**— End, Chapter 1 —**


	2. Chapter 2

**Blast from the Past**

**by FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer:** All things Supernatural owned and operated by CW, Eric Kripke, et al.

**A/N:** SPN is a tough fandom; I only write for this fandom when I'm really feeling the story, on a personal level — reviews are few, and far between, so a writer who is writing for any reason other than love of the craft could easily be disappointed, or become disinterested. Aren't you lucky that I do not write for applause, but for love?

**Chapter 2: Um…Hello. Sir.**

Sam balanced the pizzas, the 6-pack of brew, and his car keys. With some dexterity, he managed to beep the SUV locked, pocket his keys, and turn toward the motel room. He passed the Impala on the way and paused, shifting the beer to hook on a finger of the hand holding the pizzas, so that he could free his other hand. He slowly passed the car, running his palm over the smooth metal, still hot in the late afternoon sun. He swallowed an unexpected lump in his throat before he stopped outside of room 12. Raising his hand, Sam rapped three times on the door. "Pizza delivery," he called.

Soon the door swung open, and his brother's smiling face greeted him. "'Bout time, Sammy Boy, I'm starved!" He relieved his brother of the pizza and the 6-pack, passing both back to someone in the rear of the room. Then he grabbed Sam in a bear hug, quick and tight. "Come on in," he invited, stepping back. "Say hello to Dad."

Sam stepped over the threshold of the room, absently noting the thin line of salt already in place, and smiled politely at the older man. "Hey, sir. Dad."

John stood over the room's only table, one hand on the pizza boxes he had just placed there, and smiled politely back. "Son. You look good."

Sam nodded. "Thanks. You, too. No bad hunts lately?"

"Easy stuff," John answered, and Dean glanced meaningfully at him before he shut the door behind Sam and approached the pizza. John amended his statement. "Well," he shrugged, "got beat up a little a few months ago taking out some wolves, but nothin' serious." Dean snorted, and John scowled as he accepted a slice of pepperoni.

Sam frowned, stepping closer. "You could have called if you needed me. I would have come."

John sighed, pizza halfway to his mouth. "I know that, Sam. It really wasn't that serious. Holed up for a few days in Chicago, then we were on the road again." He took a bite of pizza, then waved the slice at one of the two chairs at the table. "Sit. I'll grab a corner of the bed." The two men passed each other awkwardly in the small room, and soon Sam was seated at the table opposite Dean, reaching for the second pizza, which was vegetarian. Dean placed a beer in front of him, then tossed one toward John, who caught it with an experienced hand. "Thanks," he grunted, looking at Sam again. "Sorry to hear about..." he glanced quickly at Dean.

"Kim," Dean supplied helpfully, and John had the grace to redden slightly.

"Right. Kim," he parroted. "How long has it been, now?"

"Six months," answered Sam, putting down his slice of pizza as his appetite wained. "Kim left me for some B-list movie star six months ago." The room was silent, Finally Sam continued. "Anyway. Thanks for letting Dean come out here for a few days."

"Dean's his own man," answered his father. "Both my boys are." He took a deep breath. "Both good men, too."

Dean looked up in surprise, and smiled to thank his father silently for going the extra mile. A little nonplussed, Sam played with his pizza for a moment before taking his own risk. "You only got the room for one night, right?"

"Yeah," nodded Dean. "We weren't sure what we were getting into without more details from you.'

Sam hurried on. "Thing is, Kim and I, we were halfway into a one-year lease when she left. The house is too big for me, and expensive without a second income - I'm moving to an apartment next month, when the lease is up. But right now, I'm still in the house - and it has three bedrooms. Plenty big enough for all of us...if you'd like to stay there, I mean. I should have thought to make that clear when I called, but since Dean's been there before, I guess I just assumed..."

John cleared his throat and Dean nodded at Sam. "Yeah, yeah, that's what I was thinking too."

"You were," John intoned dryly.

Dean blushed. "Well, yeah. But we got here while Sam was still at work, so I thought we might as well stay at a motel for one night..."

"Of course you did," John agreed.

Sam watched the silent interplay between his brother and his father, reminded of why he left home in the first place. "Listen you don't have to..."

"Nonsense," interrupted John. "We could stand to save some money. We'll go over tomorrow after breakfast, if that's all right."

A little stung that John's main reason for accepting his invitation was money, Sam shrugged. "Yeah, sure. Whatever."

Dean caught the tone of his voice, ever tuned to Sam's moods, even after all these years. "So tell us about this job," he demanded, changing the subject. "What do I get to kill?"

**SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN**

"Absolutely not." Sam. still dressed in his sweats after his 6 a.m. run, stood adamantly in his kitchen, facing the breakfast bar and glaring at his brother, who sat with his father on the other side of the bar. He was a little surprised to see them at 6:45, when he returned from his run — but when he thought about it, he wasn't sure why. Neither John nor Dean were ones to let grass grow under their feet, and the only time they slept past 5 a.m. during a hunt were the mornings after spending half the night before in a graveyard.

"We have the I.D.," Dean argued. "You can get us in as…whaddyacallits…consulting attorneys."

"It's illegal!" Sam shot back. "I could be disbarred, or worse, if anyone ever finds out!"

John interrupted, his no-nonsense tone blasting through the kitchen. "Sam, YOU called US here. We need to talk to this guy, find out everything he can tell us about what he saw."

"Why?" Sam challenged. "I told you everything he said — this is obviously a Wendigo. I can take you to the crime scene myself."

Dean looked at his father. "Tell him," he suggested.

Sam stiffened. "Tell me what? We've all dealt with Wendigos before. Granted, it was 15 years ago for me…"

John was frowning at Dean, who nodded his head toward Sam. "He has a right to know."

Sam was starting to get angry. "Do you two need me for this conversation, or can I go get ready for work?" he asked sarcastically.

Finally John sighed and looked back at his youngest son. "It could be a hybrid."

Sam blinked. "A what?"

"Hybrid," Dean repeated. "Bobby sent us after a family last year. Seems some Wendigos changed the game on us."

Sam stared at him. "What are you talking about?"

John answered. "We all thought it was lore — the hunter's version of an old wives' tale — but we've seen them, now, and so have several other hunters. A generation ago, a tribe of Wendigos started kidnapping young women, instead of killing them on sight. Apparently, they would…force themselves…on the women, impregnate them, then hold them captive until the women gave birth. _Then_ they would kill them… Anyway, they created a human-Wendigo hybrid. We don't know how many. But they're resistant to the traditional ways we hunters deal with Wendigos."

Sam paled. "That's…crazy," he started, but John interrupted.

"Why?" his father countered. "We've long known that a Wendigo is created when a human resorts to cannibalism; technically, the Wendigo was once human. A Wendigo has all the human physiology, and urges — not just a dick and balls, but a brain, as well. By raping a fully human female and reproducing, the Wendigo created a hybrid that began life as a cannibal, among other things."

"Not only that," Dean put in, "this hybrid can't be killed with iron, steel, or silver — like a regular Wendigo can."

Sam looked back and forth from his brother to his father, unsure how much to believe. "Well then, how the hell do you kill it?"

"Not sure" John shrugged. "That's one reason we want to talk to your client, to figure out if this is the same one we went after last year. In the end, we went with a stake to the heart, dismembering the body with a silver axe."

"But when we tried to burn the parts," Dean said, "nothing happened. It was the middle of drought season in the woods — we almost burned down half of Indiana. But we could not light the hair on this…thing…"

"We finally buried the parts," John continued, "some as far as a mile apart, everything at least six feet deep and drenched in holy water. We tagged the right arm with red spray paint first, so we could tell if the same one regenerated, or if we we were seeing a new one, and then we stayed in the place where we buried the head for several days. Nothing happened while we were there — but there's no lore on these things. Hell, they don't even have their own name, yet. We just don't know what happened after we left."

"That's why we want to talk to your client," Dean said. "We need a better description — did he see the red spray paint?"

"Did you try an Anasazi symbol?" Sam asked. "Wendigos can't cross over one of those."

"That was one of the first things we tried," John answered. "When the thing didn't give it a second glance, that was our first clue that this was no ordinary Wendigo."

A teapot whistled, and Sam moved to take the kettle off the burner. He opened a cupboard and reached inside to extract a mug and a tea bag, then rummaged around until he found a small jar of instant coffee. He closed the cupboard, poured hot water over his tea bag, and offered the coffee to his father. "I've got to get ready for work," he said. "When I see Sanderson later today, I'll ask him about any markings he may have seen. If you have other questions for him, you'll have to send them through me."

Dean grimaced. "I want to see what this thing is — but I'm tempted to let the guy fry, after what you told us about him."

"About that," said John, "How do you intend to stop a conviction? When we find whatever it is, we'll kill it and go away, like we always do — the evidence against your guy will still be there."

Sam sighed, and sipped at his tea. "I know that. I haven't decided yet what to do. I want more details about what he really does — watching little girls might be unsavory, and a little suspect — but if that's really all he does, should he spend his life in prison for it? I can stop an execution easily enough by challenging the evidence; chain of command at the crime scene sucked out loud."

"But if he admits some other crime to you during your attorney-client discussions, you can't tell anybody. Right?"

Sam smiled sadly at his brother. "Still watching crime dramas, I see. And you're correct — but I won't be part of setting a predator, if that's what he is, free."

John twisted the top off the jar of instant coffee and sniffed at it cautiuosly. "Well, one problem at a time," he said. "Let's find out what we're dealing with, first. All of us."

**End, Chapter 2**


	3. Chapter 3

**Blast from the Past**

**by FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer:** All things Supernatural owned and operated by CW, Eric Kripke, et al.

**Chapter 3: Details**

John was clearly uncomfortable. And Sam loved it.

The three Winchesters sat in Sam's small office — Sam behind his expansive cherrywood desk, his main splurge when he had left the public defender's office and opened his own firm — Dean and John in the two overstuffed chairs that faced the desk, as if they were prospective clients. Dean had seen the office before; he had actually helped Sam move in during his visit six months before — but John pulled at his collar and shuffled his feet as if he were an actual client trying to hide something.

"Relax, Dad," Sam finally advised. "My secretary won't be back from lunch for at least 45 minutes; we're all alone, here. Besides, Donna is very discrete. She's worked for attorneys her entire career — well over 40 years."

"Sounds old," John mumbled, and Dean laughed.

"She is," Sam answered seriously. "She actually retired from the PD's office during the time I worked there. I was one of several attorneys she was assigned to — but I became her favorite when I got her grandson out from under a petty larceny charge, free and clear. After that, she brought me cookies every week for almost two years, until she retired."

"No wonder you've kept up your running," John observed drily, and Sam smiled.

"What is it with you and cookies, anyway?" Dean asked. "You never seemed particularly fond of them when we were kids — but didn't that girlfriend you had in college always bake you cookies, too? J…J…J-something."

"Jess," Sam provided. "I don't know. My scholarship covered books and tuition, which didn't leave me a lot to live on, the PD's office doesn't pay all that well — I guess I always look hungry."

John snorted. "Always were a bottomless pit. During your growth spurt, you ate more than your brother and I combined."

Sam took a healthy bite of his turkey sandwich and purposely answered with his mouth full. "I don't know what you're talking about."

John laughed and Dean smiled around the straw as he sipped his soda. God, he never got tired of watching his father and his brother get along. The first several years Sam was gone were hard. John knew that Dean started to make trips to Palo Alto during Sam's third year there, and he never asked him to stop — but Sam had already graduated and gone into law school before John even asked Dean how his brother was. Almost ten years passed before Sam and John spoke to each other — and then it was only because Dean was so near death that the hospital urged John to call anyone who might want to say goodbye. John had called Bobby, and Sam, and both had dropped everything to rush to the hospital in Texas. By the time Dean had turned the corner and decided to live, Bobby had negotiated an uneasy truce between the other two Winchesters. In the last five years, they spoke politely on the phone a few times a year, and Sam had met them at Bobby's for Christmas the year before he married Kim. Granted, it wasn't much of a relationship — but it was more than Dean had dared to hope for.

He placed the paper container back on the edge of Sam's desk — on the coaster his brother had pointedly put there just for that purpose — and waggled his eyebrows at his brother. "So what ever happened to Jess, anyway?" He turned and grinned at his father. "She was hot. Blonde. Tall enough for Sam…"

"Shut up," Sam interrupted, his face reddening. "Jess is a teacher — still in California, but she's at a middle school in the San Franciso area now."

"You seem to know quite a bit about her post-Stanford activities," noted John, and Sam's blush deepened.

"We keep in touch. Facebook, e-mail, linkedin."

John looked confused. "What?"

Sam shook his head, took one last bite of his sandwich, and threw the remainder away.

"You use e-mail all the time, Dad," accused Dean. "Stop playing dumb."

"It helps me extract more information," John deadpanned, and both his sons laughed.

Sam stood behind the desk. "Well you're not getting anymore from me until after I see my client." He checked his watch. "Speaking of which, I should get heading over to the jail now. You guys want to stay here until I get back? I need to stop at the courthouse and file a motion for another client first, so it could be a couple of hours or more."

John stood as well, so Dean followed. John extended a hand toward his youngest son, who hesitated briefly before meeting his father's hand with one of his own. John shook Sam's hand solidly, and Sam felt the warmth. "Thanks, son, but I think we'll head back to your place and do some laundry, if that's okay. Enjoyed having lunch with you. Office is small — but it's cozy. You've done a good job, here."

Sam couldn't stop the smile that lit his face. "Thanks. Really. And sure, knock yourself out in the laundry room." He retrieved his hand and glanced down at the dayplanner open on his desk. "I don't have any appointments this afternoon; I'll leave a note for Donna that I'm taking off early after I see Sanderson at the jail — she knows my family is in town, so she won't be surprised — I should be home by 3 or 4."

"Sounds good," Dean said, winking at his brother. "Bring me some pie."

**SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN**

Sam stood as his client was led into the room. Sanderson was shoved into the chair with a little more force than necessary, and Sam looked at the guard, the features of his face set as if chiseled in stone. Without looking away, Sam extended a long arm and grabbed a legal pad and pen off the table. "Officer," he began, readying his pen to write.

"What?" asked the guard, his tone a surly challenge.

Sam continued to stare at him. "I'll need your name, rank, and badge number. For the report I intend to file before I leave."

The guard reddened. "I didn't do nothin'. Just delivered your client."

"With enthusiasm," Sam noted.

"Baby killers deserve _enthusiasm_," muttered the guard.

"I may agree with you there," Sam answered. "So it's a shame — for you — that my client is innocent until proven guilty in a court of law. Badge number, please." The guard glowered at Sam, then reluctantly recited the information Sam had requested. "Thank you," Sam said, dropping the legal pad onto the table and pulling out his own chair. "You're dismissed, now. Be sure to tell your coworkers that my innocent client has rights, and an attorney who intends to see that those rights are observed."

"Yeah, and you be sure to call for help when your innocent client beats the hell out of you in here, counselor." With that, the guard left, slamming the door behind him. Sam shook his head and sank into his chair.

When he looked up at Sanderson, his client was staring back at him with interest. "Holy crap. You'd better hope I don't go all Hannibal on you, cuz that guy and his friends aren't going to hear a thing."

"I'm not a little girl," Sam replied. "I can handle myself against the likes of you."

Sanderson blushed. "So that was all a show. You don't think I'm innocent."

Sam shrugged. "Maybe of murder. But you admitted that you watch little girls."

"I told you, I've never touched…" Sanderson paused, leaning forward over the table. "Wait a minute. Did you say 'innocent of murder'?"

Sam opened his briefcase and toyed with some papers inside, before settling back in his chair. "That depends on what you can tell me."

Sanderson looked confused. "I told you last time. My story hasn't changed."

"I need a better description of…the perp," Sam said. "How tall?"

Sanderson was starting to look leery, like he was afraid he was being tricked. "Well…twice as tall as me, at least — and I'm 6 feet tall."

Sam nodded, scribbled "12 feet" on his legal pad, and continued his questions. "You said he was 'hairy'. Was he wearing clothing?"

"N...No, just patches of fur. I could see some yellow skin. A sasquatch, maybe."

"And all of the fur was one color?"

Sanderson nodded. "Brown. The color of mud."

"Did you see his right arm clearly?"

Now Sanderson was convinced Sam was playing him. "Sure," he answered blithely. "Thing picked up the first little girl with his right arm, swung her around until he cracked her melon on a tree trunk." He nodded solemnly. "Tree had dark brown bark, little mossy."

Sam ignored him. "And the arm was the same color as the rest of him?"

"Yep," Sanderson replied.

_Good,_ thought Sam. _They don't regenerate. At least this must be a different one, anyway._

Sanderson spoke again. "Oh, yeah, pretty sure the eyes were glowing. Red. You believe that, too, Winchester?"

Sam scribbled on the pad again, then leaned forward until his face was only a few inches from that of his client. "What if I told you that I do?"

Sanderson snickered. "I'd say you're crazier than I am. And I'd ask exactly how much my father is paying you."

Sam leaned back again. "I've seen them before. They're called Wendigos. They're usually found around Minnesota, but they've come nomadic, so it's not unusual anymore for one to crop up anywhere. I've also seen vampires, werewolves, and assorted disgruntled spirits."

Sanderson blinked, twice. "How stupid do you think I am?", he finally asked.

"Did you see what you saw?" countered Sam.

The two men sat in silence for several minutes. Sanderson dropped his hands to his lap and started wringing them again, much as he had during their last visit. "You're not kidding," he finally decided.

Sam shook his head. "No, I'm not. I know people. I can take care of this thing. The crime scene was out of control, with no clear chain of command. I can make the evidence in this case disappear. You'll be a free man."

Sanderson frowned. "On a technicality — so everyone will still believe that I did it."

Sam titled his head. "True. But this is Oregon; a death penalty state — at least you'll be alive. You can move, change your name, start over."

Sanderson looked at Sam suspicously. "What's the catch?"

"I want the truth," Sam answered. "Tell me what you do with little girls."

Sanderson sighed, looked down at his hands, then back to Sam. "I swear on…on a Wendigo, I told you the truth. I started looking at pictures when I was a teenager. About 10 years later, I was in a park, minding my own business, and this little girl was playing on the swings. She was wearing a dress, and every time there was an upswing, I could see her underwear. That's when I started following them. Just the ones in dresses, always hoping I could get another glimpse…I have never, ever, touched one. Never spoke to one, except one little girl who was chasing a ball and asked me if I'd seen it."

"How long have you been doing this? How often?"

"Four years," Sanderson replied. "Usually, only once or twice a month. The rest of the time, I still look at pictures — not even porn, just pictures of little girls selling underwear. Catalogs. My activity hasn't escalated, I swear. I would never allow that. Never. I…I even had a vasectomy a few years ago so that I would never have a little girl of my own, and go too far."

"I want to search your apartment," Sam said, and Sanderson nodded eagerly.

"Do it. Cops didn't find anything there — no porn sites in my computer history. I'll even tell you where I hide the catalogs. Seven of them — a couple are almost 20 years old, the rest I rotate out every few years."

Sam nodded. "Spare key?"

"Usual place — lentil above the door."

Sam placed the legal pad in his briefcase, closed the case, and stood to leave. "I may not be back for a few days. I have some things to check out in this story."

"I understand," Sanderson replied, standing and offering Sam his hand. "Thank you. For believing me. About…about the forest."

Sam looked at the hand, then looked directly into Sanderson's eyes. "Don't thank me yet," he advised. Then he turned and walked to the room's door, rapping twice. He waited almost three minutes for the still-disgruntled guard to meander his way to the door and let him out — but he didn't wait at the table with his client. He stood silently at the door, and tried to decide what to believe.

**SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN**

Sam balanced the apple pie carefully while he extracted his keys from the front door lock. "Hello?" he called, stepping insde. "Anybody home?"

Dean came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. "Dude. When's the last time you did the dishes?" His face lit up as he spotted the white box in Sam's hands. "Is that pie? Did you bring me pie?"

Sam smiled, handing over the box to his anxious brother. "Apple. It's from a pretty popular bakery downtown — I passed it on the way home. And I do the dishes every week, thank you very much."

"Must've missed a few weeks," Dean observed, turning to take the pie into the kitchen. "I mean, how many spoons and bowls can one man use in a week?"

Sam followed him into the kitchen, which was cleaner than he had seen it in a while. "Shut up," he grumbled. "Where's the Impala? Did Dad go somewhere?"

Dean placed the box of pie on the bar in the center of the kitchen and turned to face Sam. "It's just for a few days," he explained, his expression a mixture of hope and dread.

Sam stared at his brother. "What? A few days? Dad left?"

Dean walked to the counter, where Sam's coffee maker sat with the fresh pot of coffee he had just made, and reached into a cupboard for a mug. "We picked up some things at the store. Actual coffee — do you drink anything but tea, anymore?"

Sam sighed and sank onto a stool at the bar. "I should have known he'd find a reason to get out of this hunt. He probably didn't want to come out here in the first place."

Dean turned around, leaning against the counter. "That's not true," he insisted, "and he really did like seeing your office. Talked about it all afternoon — until Garth called."

Sam regarded him with obvious disbelief. "You guys hanging out with country singers, now?"

Dean looked momentarily confused, then took a sip of his coffee and chuckled. "No, idiot, not Garth Brooks. This Garth is a hunter we met, a few years back; Bobby hooked us up. Skinny little dude, but a surprisingly effective hunter… Anyway, Bobby had him call Dad, because Garth is on a werewolf hunt just a couple of hours away. Near that university, in Eugene. He was working with a partner, but the wolf turned out to be two wolves, and they got the best of them last night. Hurt the partner pretty bad — that's one reason Bobby wanted Dad to go." He puffed up a little with pride. "Dad's become pretty well known amongst hunters for his medical knowledge. So he can check out the partner, then help Garth with this wolf problem. The moon will only be full for two more nights, Sam — the wolves have to go down now."

Sam just sat dejectedly at the bar. "Yeah, yeah — and the Wendigo is more active during the full moon, also."

"You and I can handle this, Sammy."

Now Sam looked concerned. "Me? I haven't hunted in 15 years, Dean! You need someone on top of his game to watch your back on this!"

Dean placed his mug of coffee on the counter and crossed to the bar, where he stood near Sam. "Like riding a bike, Sam. When you…left for Stanford, you were one of the best. Trained by John Winchester. Besides, we can just go out and do some recognizance work; Dad could be back tomorrow. We don't know where this thing is — probably moved on from that forested area of the park, with all the activity surrounding the girls' deaths. Hell, we don't even know if it's alone, or part of a pack. Let's do some tracking, find out what we're dealing with."

Sam shook his head. "If I thought I could handle this, I never would have called you guys."

"Of course you can't handle it alone," argued Dean. "But I'll be there. Dad left some weapons here, but I found your gun safe. You can't tell me you haven't been shooting."

San narrowed his eyes. "At targets, Dean — and my gun safe is locked."

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "You're kidding, right? When's the last time you saw a lock stop me?"

Sam sighed again, leaning his head into both hands. "This is crazy," he mumbled.

Dean grinned. "Come on, Sammy. It'll be like old times. You and me, huntin' something fugly."

Sam suddenly looked up, the suspicion back. "Dad doesn't know about this, does he? He wants us to wait until he gets back."

Dean shrugged, looked away for a moment, then back at Sam. "Since when does it matter to you what Dad thinks?"

Sam's face filled with fury. "That's not fair," he growled. "Do you want my help, or not?"

Dean grinned. "Sounds like you're in, little brother."

Sam rolled his eyes. "One of us is going to get the other killed."

Dean winked. "Hell, no. As soon as that Wendigo gets a glimpse of this dynamic duo, he'll hold up his hands and surrender. The Winchester Brothers are back in town."

**End, Chapter 3**


	4. Chapter 4

**Blast from the Past**

**by FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer:** All things Supernatural owned and operated by CW, Eric Kripke, et al.

**Chapter 4: The Best-Laid Plans…**

Dean observed his brother critically. Sam was dressed in black jeans, a black t-shirt, serious hiking boots — and a brown leather shoulder holster.

"Um…Sam…I'm not sure about that holster."

Sam looked down at the holster. "What's wrong with it? Kim got this for me on my birthday one year. It's specially designed for the Glock." He looked up and smiled. "Thanks for fixing the site for me, by the way. It's my favorite gun."

"No problem," Dean answered. "It's a very nice holster, don't get me wrong…but…"

"But what?"

Dean shrugged. "Dude. We're walking through a city park. Don't you think all the moms and dads might notice a guy dressed all in black, packing heat?"

Sam's face fell, then became defensive. "I was going to put a coat on," he mumbled.

Dean grinned. "Still. I'm not sure you need a bulge in that area giving you away." He angled his head. "Maybe you should wear some larger jeans, too. Probably not a good idea for you to be sporting a bulge in _that_ area, either."

Sam reddened furiously and moved the duffle bag he was holding so that it was in front of him. "Shut up, Dean! These jeans are the same size as all my others! And I have a carry permit — _for the gun_ — but yeah, I guess I'd rather not have to prove that to the cops somebody will call when they see that I'm armed. What would you suggest?"

Dean laughed at his brother's obvious discomfort. "I would suggest carrying the weapon in the bag, with all the others — at least until we get safely into the trees. Then you can stick it in the waistband of your super-tight jeans."

Sam whirled to go back into his bedroom and change his clothes. "I hate you very much."

"Doesn't look like it," Dean teased, and Sam slammed the door in his face.

**SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN**

Sam gestured toward a grouping of long-dead flower bouquets. "This is the place," he said to Dean. "Once they took the crime scene tape down, people started leaving memorials. The first time I came out here, there were a couple of teddy bears, and a doll, too." He shook his head. "I can't believe someone was desperate enough to take them."

"Maybe it was some other little kid," Dean suggested. "Just playing around back here, and suddenly they find a bunch of toys."

"Any parent who would let a child come back here, after what happened…" Sam shivered. "That possibility is worse than someone stealing the memorials."

Dean crouched at the edge of the clearing, nodding his head. "You got a point, there." He stood again, and sighed. "If there were clear prints, all the traffic from the cops destroyed them. I can't see anything."

"So that means it's moved on," Sam said. "If it came back, after all the cops were here, its prints would be the ones on top."

"Maybe." Dean seemed unconvinced. "This clearing is literally covered with prints, of all sizes. Remember, Wendigos are capable of thought. Maybe it just made it a point to step inside of prints already here — or, if it wasn't scared off by something first, it could have taken the time to cover its tracks." He frowned, and took a few steps away from Sam. "That might be a drag mark, over by that…"

Suddenly, the foliage rustled and Dean whirled back to face his brother. Sam looked back at him with wide, terrified eyes. Dean suddenly regretted bringing Sam along — his younger brother hadn't hunted for 15 years; what was he thinking? Noiselessly he gestured for Sam to get back, into the trees. He demonstrated by sinking backwards, himself. He had time to watch Sam scramble for the foliage, but Dean felt no relief. Now they were on opposite sides of the clearing; they were both hidden; but the Wendigo, if that's what it was, could easily catch a scent.

The noise in the forest grew louder, nearer to Dean, and he sunk back even farther as the leaves parted and a creature emerged. Undoubtedly a Wendigo, probably a hybrid; Sam had been right. Dean quietly reached into one pocket of his coat and withdrew a container of holy water. He sprinkled it liberally over himself, hoping that the water would help cover his scent. He cursed silently when he spied their duffle full of weapons — and another bottle of holy water, which Dean should have insisted that Sam carry on his person — sitting in the middle of the clearing.

The Wendigo saw it too, and moved toward the bag. Suddenly, it stopped, tilting back his head and sniffing the air. It had caught a scent.

The beast turned slowly toward where Sam had disappeared, and Dean almost burst from his own hiding spot, to distract the Wendigo. As he prepared to do just that, another noise came from the East border of the clearing — away from both Sam and Dean. The Wendigo whirled toward the sound, and when it did, yet another noise came from the West. The Wendigo whirled again, confusion apparent, this time lumbering toward the latest sound. When it had reached the trees on the West side, the noise from the East repeated itself. The Wendigo roared in frustration, whirling again. It paused long enough to part a few leaves and peer through them, then turned to head for the East border. The Wendigo had nearly reached the foliage when there was an unmistakable sound from the bushes it had just checked. The Wendigo stopped so suddenly that it staggered, glanced around the nearly-empty clearing, and turned away from both sounds — towards Dean.

Dean's heart quickened until he realized that the beast was retreating back into the deeper forest. The Wendigo crashed through trees only a few feet to his left, and disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. Dean knew that he and Sam had to do the same; it was possible that hybrid Wendigos travelled in families, or tribes, and the brothers needed to be long gone before the Wendigo returned with friends. Stll, he held his watch up in front of his face, and forced himself to wait four minutes. He had been aiming for five, but he couldn't do it. At four minutes, he rolled from his hiding place, sprinted across the clearing — grabbing the duffle as he went — and slid under the bushes near where Sam had disappeared.

Even though Dean had seen the Wendigo leave via the opposite side of the clearing, he panicked and kicked out when something grabbed his ankle. "Ow! Stop, Dean, it's me!"

Dean grabbed with his free hand until he connected with Sam's arm. Then he jerked them both upright, and started running. "Let's get out of here," he hissed.

Sam seemed okay with that plan, and the two of them ran as fast as they could, thick foliage occasionally slapping one of them in the face, or digging at their flying legs, until they burst onto the walking trail that separated the park proper from the forest. They slowed then, but continued to jog until they had reached the manicured grass that signaled they were near a more heavily used section of the property.

Sam stopped, and bent to hold onto his own thighs. "Wait," he panted. "wait."

Dean grabbed his arm again and pulled. "Not yet, Sammy — let's head for those benches near the fountain. Pull yourself together — you go running every morning!"

Sam straightened enough to glare at his brother. "Very seldom for my life," he complained, and Dean grinned despite the ugly scratch on Sam's cheek.

Dean let go of Sam's arm long enough to take a handkerchief from a pocket on the outside of the duffle. "Here," he said, shoving the cloth at Sam. "Clean yourself up before we scare the fine people of Portland to death."

Sam grunted and accepted the handkerchief. He was still holding it to his face when they reached the benches Dean had mentioned. The time had recently changed, and the weather was warm enough that many were still enjoying the park, even though it was nearly 8:00 p.m.

The two sank down onto an empty bench, and Dean let the duffle drop to the ground. He turned slightly toward Sam and reached toward his face. "Here. Let me see how bad it is."

Sam sighed, and dropped his own hand as Dean took over. "I don't think it's too bad," he said. "I didn't even know it was bleeding until you said something."

Dean nodded, pleased to see that the scratch no longer was. "It'll be okay," he agreed.

"Was that a hybrid?" Sam asked. "Didn't look quite like the Wendigos I remember — but very similar."

Dean nodded again. "I think so," he answered. "Not quite as tall, finer features — which makes them look a little more human. I got us out of there so fast because we think they travel in groups. I think it may have gone to get some friends." His expression grew confused. "When I started hearing those noises, I was afraid they'd come along in the first place. What the hell was that, anyway?"

"Rocks. When it caught my scent, I used every stone or pebble I could reach — thank God for long arms." He blinked at Dean, suddenly taking in his brother's appearance. "Why are you all wet?"

Dean laughed. "Holy water. There's a theory that dousing yourself in holy water can mask your scent." His smile faded. "Must've worked, because the Wendigo didn't seem to smell me — only you. I should have made you carry the other bottle."

Sam shrugged. "I wouldn't have thought to use it anyway."

Now Dean was frowinng. "Exactly. I never should have brought you out here. You haven't hunted in years, and you're not even familiar with all of the lore, anymore."

Sam gingerly touched the scratch on his cheek. "Not only that," he winced. "Unless we come up with a good story for this, Dad is going to figure out that we came out here without him."

Dean matched Sam's wince. "Pretty sure a Wendigo is worse," he mumbled, and Sam laughed.

"At least we know it's still frequenting this area," Sam noted. "Probably easy hunting grounds. Secluded, and yet plenty of people nearby."

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "We need to come back here — better prepared. Camoflauge clothes doused in holy water. We'll track it back to its lair, or nest, or whatever."

This time Sam nodded, as his face took on a bemused expression. "I haven't had much call for camo," he said. "While we're waiting for dad…" he looked sternly at his brother …"_and this time, we're waiting for Dad_ — I'll have to do some shopping."

Dean's face lit up. "Cool. Legitimate shopping, with actual money. You got a Bass Pro Shop out here?"

**End, Chapter 4**


	5. Chapter 5

**Blast from the Past**

**by FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer:** All things Supernatural owned and operated by CW, Eric Kripke, et al.

**A/N:** The Cat is not an attorney (nor does she play one on TV). All legalese is fiction; as is this entire story, in case you were wondering.

**Chapter 5: Busted**

Despite the brothers' late-night activities, Sam was in his office bright-and-early the next morning, preparing for a trial the next day. He expected the trial to be brief — one day or less. His client (the defendant) was forfeiting his right to a jury of his peers, and Sam would be arguing only to the judge. On the one hand, he thought this was a bad idea. Judges often took a harder line than a jury. On the other hand, not having to spend the day picking a jury meant that Sam could get in some last-minute research — and he had an idea.

John was back in Portland by early afternoon, almost exactly 24 hours after he had left. He appeared at Sam's house in a good mood: he and Garth had successfully ended both wolves the night before, and it looked like Garth's partner was not badly injured enough to need a hospital. He'd be off the hunting circuit for a few months, at least, but anytime a hunter could avoid hospitalization was good news.

John had slept late that morning, and the commute from Eugene to Portland was brief — he was ready to get directly into planning the Wendigo hunt, as soon as he dropped his duffle off in one of Sam's spare bedrooms. "What did you do while I was gone, Dean?" he asked as he entered Sam's home office.

Dean glanced up quickly from the computer (where he had been adding every porn site he knew about to Sam's bookmarks). "What?"

John smiled, sinking down into a chair facing the desk. "Research. I know the lore on these hybrids is sparse — but did you find anything?"

Dean looked at the screen long enough to quit "Busty Asian Beauties". "Uh…no."

John laughed. "Come on, son, are you going to pretend that you even looked? I know you and your brother haven't seen each other in a few months — and you told me he was pretty depressed last time, after his wife left with the girl."

"Yeah," Dean sighed. "Sam said his step-daughter still phones him sometimes. I think he still misses her a lot. She was only a baby when he got together with her mother, so it was like Christina was his own, you know?"

John slowly nodded, a pensive expression on his face. "I always wondered why he never had one of his own." He attempted a half-hearted grin. "At least, not yet."

Rather than smiling in return, a look of repressed fury came over Dean. "He always thought Kim was just having a difficult time getting pregnant again — but I think she was playing him."

John attempted to restore his son's good humor. "Dean, I know you didn't like her much…but you only met her once, right?"

"Exactly!" Dean exclaimed triumphantly. "When you and I went to the wedding. We only spent a couple of days with them before the ceremony, and I figured she was just freaked out getting everything ready. But I came to spend time with Sam twice during their marriage — once in L.A., and once here in Portland — and she made it a point to be out of town both times."

"Maybe…" John started, but Dean interrupted.

"It's not just that. Three months after she moved back to L.A. with the wannabe actor dude, she was knocked up. I think she was probably on the pill or something the entire time she was with Sam."

John's eyebrows climbed. "Why would she do that?"

"I think she wanted a rich attorney. When they got married, Sam was still with that firm in L.A. — the one that hired him straight out of Stanford. She probably thought he'd be a partner, eventually — but when he jumped off the fast track to partnership to join the public defender's office in Portland…did you know they were separated for a few months?"

"Sam mentioned it, at the time — after the fact. He called to talk to you, but you were out, so I asked him about his new job. He said he loved it, and that Kim hadn't moved to Portland right away, but that she was with him again — I wasn't sure it was an actual _separation_, I thought maybe she had other reasons to stay in L.A. "

Dean snorted. "Probably did — maybe she was seeing that guy way back then. Anyway, when Sam told her he was leaving the P.D.'s office, she thought he was going back into a firm. She called it quits when he opened his own little one-lawyer shop."

John was silent for a moment. "Guess Sam thought "normal" meant no heartache," he said, and Dean didn't answer. John shifted in his chair. "Still, it's a shame about the child. I'm sure Sam misses her."

Dean nodded, looking down at the desk where his index finger traced a lazy figure 8. Finally he sighed, glanced at his watch, then looked back at his father.

"I guess I might as well tell you. You'll see the scratch on Sam's face in about an hour, anyway."

John straightened. "What scratch? What happened?"

Dean cleared his throat. "We…well…Sam…tookmetothecrimescenelastnight. The hybrid showed up."

John jumped to his feet. "You _what_?" he shouted. "What were you _thinking_, Dean! Your brother left the life 15 years ago!"

Dean stood up as well. "I _was thinking_ that Sam is an adult," he answered hotly, then he reddened slightly and sank back to the chair. He ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. "I was also thinking that the Wendigo would never come back there, again. The location is close to a heavily populated area; traffic there has been heavy ever since the killings…I just wanted to see if there were still any clear tracks."

John sighed, paced the small room, and finally returned to sit in the chair again. "A normal Wendigo _wouldn't_ return to the scene of a kill," he said, more gently. "A normal Wendigo wouldn't have come that close to town in the first place." He leaned forward to lean his arms on the desk. "We don't know enough about these hybrids, son — I thought you understood that."

Dean swallowed, then nodded his head. "I'm sorry, sir — you're right. I regretted letting Sam come with me the second I started hearing a crashing in the brush."

John sat back, concerned. "It's truly just a scratch?"

Dean nodded. "Truly. The beast never saw either one of us. I think it caught Sam's scent…" — he suddenly grinned, proudly — "…but Sam confused the hell out of it. He kept throwing rocks toward opposite ends of the clearing, and the Wendigo couldn't decide how much danger it was in — so it finally left, crashing back through the woods the same way it came."

John tried not to smile. "The scratch?"

Dean shrugged. "Sasquatch must've gotten sideswiped by a tree limb when we hightailed it out of there. We weren't sure if the Wendigo went to get some friends and was intending to come back — but we didn't want to wait and find out, either."

John nodded. "Good choice. I've heard some barroom hunter lore that these hybrids travel in families."

Dean tilted his head. "Could be. This one wasn't as big, or tall, as a regular Wendigo — maybe it was a child?"

John grimaced. "Good God. That's all we need."

**SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN**

Sam shut one law review, placed it on the corner of his desk, and stood to grab a book from his three-shelf law library. A seed of possibility had grown to a mushroom cloud of certainty, and he was excited to face the judge the next day. This was going to work — he could feel it.

Gingerly he poked around the edges of the scratch on his face. He hadn't shaved today, since he would be locked in his office all day anyway — and he hoped the scratch would not be too apparent tomorrow, after he did. He wasn't sure the judge (or anyone else) would buy a four-inch shaving accident.

He smiled, returning to his desk and dropping the large volume on top. Damn, he had sort of _enjoyed_ going to the woods with Dean the night before. Wearing his gun, tricking a Wendigo, feeling like someone had his back, again. He sat down, and opened the book in front of him, still pensive. Sure, it had been scary, and confusing — both foreign and familiar at the same time — but he had to admit, it had felt right, and his actions had been based on ingrained instinct.

The smile fell from his face when he thought of Kim. Turned out "the normal life" had its own way of sucking, sometimes — and that fact had come as news to him. He had always thought "normal" equaled "happy", and that "normal" would give him everything he wanted, and deserved.

Now, he had to face a few unpleasant truths. One was that "normal" wasn't everything it was cracked up to be — and the other was that going into the woods last night with Dean, chasing a Wendigo…in a very real way, it felt like…going home.

**End, Chapter 5**


	6. Chapter 6

**Blast from the Past**

**by FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer:** All things Supernatural owned and operated by CW, Eric Kripke, et al.

**A/N:** The Cat is not an attorney (nor does she play one on TV). All legalese is fiction; as is this entire story, in case you were wondering.

**Chapter 6: The Circle of Life**

Sam listened to the bored deputy district attorney outline his case. The man obviously considered his case a slam-dunk; he spent less than an half an hour on his opening statement. He had a witness, an arresting officer, and evidence the officer had retrieved from the defendant's home. Sam had been up against this deputy D.A. several times before, when he had worked for the public defender's office. It was an unfortunate truth that Sam had never won a case against him — in fact, every case Sam had ever lost during his entire professional career was a case he had argued against this man, and the attorney smiled condescendingly in Sam's direction when he turned away from the judge, and walked back toward the prosecution table.

Sam smiled back, and rose to his full 6'4" height.

"Opening statement, counselor?"

Sam nodded. "Thank you, Your Honor. I intended to begin with the reports of no less than three physicians, two of whom are optometrists, questioning the ability of the witness to accurately make an identification from across the street, in the darkness of dawn — but let me just save us all a lot of time, and cut to the chase. I move that all the so-called evidence gathered by Officer Santini — as well as Officer Santini's testimony — be ruled inadmissable.."

As anticipated. the opposing attorney leaped to his feat. "Objection, Your Honor! Even a first-year law student knows that motions like this should be made at the pre-trial hearings!"

"Sus…" the judge started, but Sam interrupted.

"I apologize to the court, Your Honor, but I just discovered my own objections two days ago, while speaking to the defendant regarding his anticipated testimony during this trial. I was only able to complete my research yesterday. When I tried to request another pre-trial early this morning, your clerk told me that it was too late, and I'd have to argue my case in open court."

The judge glared at Sam, then slowly turned his head to glare at his clerk. Then the judge again swiveled his head toward Sam. "Very well. Your objection is overruled, Counselor Anderson."

The prosecuting attorney made a show of dropping back into his chair, assuming a casual pose. "This better be good," he muttered.

The judge did not reprimand him for speaking out of turn; rather, he nodded. "I agree," he concurred, raising an eyebrow.

Sam cleared his throat and reached into the briefcase in front of him on the defense table, withdrawing a sheaf of papers. "Thank you, Your Honor." He began walking toward the bench. "I have documentation that will show that Officer Santini, within the last year, was involved in a romantic relationship with the defendant's second cousin. That relationship ended badly, with the female obtaining a restraining order against Officer Santini, and accusations of abuse are yet to be resolved in court."

Anderson snorted. "Your Honor! A second cousin? I haven't even _met_ most of my second cousins!"

The judge banged his gavel for order, while Sam turned and faced the prosecutor. "I am prepared to argue as to the extremely close relationships amongst the defendant's extended family — if it comes to that. I will show that the defendant and the woman in question share a very distinctive last name — Augistyniak — and detail the many family celebrations that both attended, as well as the fact that Ms. Augistyniak actually lived in the defendant's home when they were in high school together. I may not get that opportunity, however, since the 'State of California vs. Reckitt' — upheld by the Supreme Court on appeal, by the way — states that 'a police officer in a position of _even the suspicion_ of conflict of interest must, if it is at all possible, defer the detainment and arrest of a non-violent suspect to another officer'. 'State of Tennessee vs. Fitzsimmons allows that in the case of a small or overtaxed police department, the potentially compromised officer may participate in the detainment and arrest, but must be accompanied by at least one other officer — and said accompanying officer may not be his or her regular partner. 'State of North Carolina vs. Thomson', 'State of Florida vs. McDaniels', and 'State of Oregon vs. Henry' all have documented similar standings." By now, Anderson's face was turning red, and his mouth was hanging slightly open. Sam turned back to the judge. "Would you like me to cite each finding, Your Honor?" Without looking behind him, Sam waved an arm toward the defense table, where a stack of thick law books dwarfed his briefcase. "I also have the relevant documentation with me, if you would care to see it."

Anderson was back on his feet. "I certainly would!" he all-but shouted. "I've never heard of any of these citations!"

"Sit down," the judge growled, banging his gavel twice. "The cases are obscure —I'll give you that — but before I retire to my chambers and consult my own library, Counselor Winchester, what else have you got?"

Sam did not hesitate. "I submit that the Portland Bureau of Police, at the time of my client's arrest by Officer Santini, was comprised of over 1,000 full-time officers, 100 reserves, and 50 cadets. Additionally, PBP enjoys reciprocal agreements with several nearby police departments, including those of Beaverton, Gresham, Mt. Hood, and the Multnomah County Sheriff's Department. Officer Santini was not part of a small or overtaxed force, and cannot be absolved of his responsibility to protect his arrest from the appearance of impropriety. Furthermore, I have consulted the Oregon Police Academy — of which Officer Santini is a graduate — and this very issue is discussed in the Oregon Public Safety Standards and Practices course. I argue that by investigating, detaining, searching the home of, and finally arresting my client, Officer Santini threw suspicion upon all aspects of this case — and that specifically, all evidence recovered at my client's home is inadmissable."

The judge was silent for a moment, then looked pointedly toward the prosecutor. "Counselor Anderson?"

"I want to see the citations," Anderson insisted.

"As do I," echoed the judge. "Court is in recess for half an hour." He banged his gavel a final time, and hurried to his chambers, robe billowing behind him.

Sam walked to the defense table, picked up several of the books, and delivered them to Anderson. "Knock yourself out," he smiled. "Each case is bookmarked."

Anderson ignored him and grabbed the book on the top of the stack, turning quickly to the marked section. Sam suppressed another smile and returned to the defense table, sitting next to his client. "Well, that was fun," he stated.

Augistyniak laughed aloud. "That was incredible. You told me you had a plan — but I never saw _that_ coming!"

Sam started to straighten out his briefcase. "Don't relax yet." he cautioned. "I probably would have swayed a jury with all of that, but we're fully dependant on the judge, here — and he didn't look too happy. If the evidence is thrown out, along with the entire investigation — the case is over, and he knows it. This entire morning will amount to a monumental waste of his time, and open up the city to a lawsuit."

"But you're right," insisted his client. "I always told you than Santini planted that evidence — and that old lady across the street can't even pass the eyesight exam to get her driver's license!"

"If we go to trial, we'll put the eyewitness testimony in serious doubt," Sam promised. "I've got a few witnesses of my own."

Augistyniak grinned nervously. "I just want this to be over. I haven't had time to even think about a potential lawsuit — but would you take the case if I did?"

Sam glanced and his client and grinned. "Try to stop me." He reached into his pocket and withdrew a five dollar bill. "You want some coffee? If you promise to get decaf, take this and hit the kiosk in the courthouse lobby. Bring me back a latte — and don't be late!"

Augistyniak grabbed the money, his face lighting up. "Thanks!"

Sam reached for his laptop, which was packed away in his briefcase. "Don't thank me — I'm adding it to your bill." He grabbed his client's arm before Augistyniak could leave. "Wait a minute," he stage-whispered, winking. Then he turned toward the table on the other side of the aisle, where Anderson was glaring at another of the books Sam had loaned him. "Hey, Counselor — my client is making a coffee run — want anything?"

Anderson looked up, his eyes narrowing. He slammed the book shut and stood. "Stow it, Winchester," he growled, and then strode from the room.

Sam laughed. "I'm sensing that the prosecution will not object to my motion to suppress," he shared, and Augistyniak grinned, slapping Sam on the back as he left.

**SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN SPN SPN • SPN • SPN**

John Winchester stood in the corridor outside Courtroom 102, eyes alert, watching the busy activity of the courthouse. "Thanks," he grunted, as Dean approached, handing him a cup of black coffee. He took a sip and wandered to the far side of the corridor, where he sat on a bench just outside the courtroom. He waited until Dean settled beside him. "Have you seen him in court before?" he asked.

Dean shrugged. "Couple of times. Once in L.A., once here. He didn't do much in L.A. — just handed papers to some other attorney. I think he called it 'sitting second chair'."

"How did he do when you saw him here?"

"Good," Dean answered. "He was with the P.D.'s office then, and he wrangled a rehab program for a repeat DUI offender — I was sure the dude would do some jail time, but Sam somehow managed to address his problem and avoid incarceration at the same time. Sort-of made my head spin."

John nodded, taking another sip of coffee. "I know what you mean," he confessed. "That little display in there…" John sighed, and lowered the cup to balance on one knee. "Maybe Sam was right, all those years ago. He's so smart, so at home in the courtroom. It's like he…belongs there."

Dean weighed his words carefully. "You had a point when you said that the 'normal life' may not have turned out the way he imagined it," he started. "But this…this is the essence of Sam. He loves being an attorney." He studiously studied his own coffee cup, avoiding John's face. "I'm sure he'd like to hear your opinion of his performance."

John stood, his face closing behind a stoic mask. "Don't push it, Dean," he warned, looking down at his oldest son. "We're civil to each other — it took us years and you on your deathbed to get that far."

Dean felt an old frustration and anger settle over him, and he stood to face his father. "What is it with you two?" he questioned, his voice rising. "Why is it so difficult for you to say, 'I'm proud of you, son.'? It's five lousy words!"

John frowned, tossing his nearly full cup of coffee into the trash receptacle near the bench. "Maybe I understand something about Sam that you don't," he hissed. "It doesn't matter to him what I think. He made that perfectly clear 15 years ago."

Dean sighed, tossing his own cup of coffee and running a hand through his hair. "And you're never gonna forgive him for that, are you?"

John opened his mouth to speak, then clamped it shut again, and the two Winchester men stared each other down in the courthouse corridor. John broke first. "This conversation hasn't gotten us anywhere, not any of the countless times we've had it. Take what you can get, Dean, and be happy about it — I'm going to the library to do some research. Take a cab back to your brother's." John turned away from Dean, and strode angrily to the elevator — nearly running headlong into Augistyniak, who was getting off the lift, balancing two cups of his own. "Excuse me," he growled, pushing past the man and squeezing into the elevator just before the doors closed.

Augistyniak shook his head, rebalanced his cups, and raised his eyes toward the courtroom. "Almost lost your latte on that one!"

Dean whipped around and saw that the courtroom door was ajar, and his brother was standing in the doorway, staring at him. His eyes never left Dean's as he spoke to his client. "Thanks, Feliks. Just leave it next to my briefcase, please — I need to speak to someone."

Augistyniak glanced at Dean, then back at his attorney. "Uh…sure," he answered awkwardly, moving past Sam into the courtroom. Sam waited until he had passed, then stepped fully outside the courtroom, letting the door swing shut behind him.

"Sam," started Dean, but Sam shook his head and interrupted, his eyes hard.

"He's right about one thing," he told his brother. "You should let it go." His eyes softened then, and he looked more like the Sammy Dean remembered. "You never argue for _yourself_, Dean — how many times has he told _you_ that he's proud of you?"

Dean reddened slightly. "He doesn't always talk with words," he defended lamely.

Sam's face softened further. "Well, I do," he said. "And I've always been proud of my big brother. I still am."

Dean swallowed, glancing away for a moment. His face was carefully composed when he looked back at Sam. "If you're going full Chick Flick on me, I won't stay and watch you kick that asshole D.A. to the curb."

Sam laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. "I promise — no more Chick Flick."

Dean nodded curtly. "Good. How much longer do you think this will take? I'm getting hungry."

**SPN • SPN •SPN •SPN •SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN**

Deputy D.A. Anderson stood slowly, facing the bench, not even glancing in Sam's direction. "The State has no objection to the motion, Your Honor — but we are prepared to continue arguing the case."

Augistyniak glanced fearfully at Sam, who put a finger to his lips and winked at him, before focusing his attention on the judge.

Judge Henry frowned, looked down at his credenza and then back to Anderson. "I'm afraid that won't be happening," he announced. "This case has wasted enough of the court's time. With no evidence and no arresting officer testimony, Counselor, you have no chance of winning. Cut your losses."

Anderson's shoulders slumped, but he nodded, his face showing no surprise. "Then the State has no choice other than to drop all charges against Feliks Augistyniak."

Judge Henry nodded. "I agree." He banged his gavel once, hard. "Case dismissed," he said curtly, gathering his robes to retreat to his chambers. As he stood he made eye contact with Sam. "Counselor Winchester."

Sam, packing up his briefcase, paused. "Your Honor?"

"Impressive research — but next time, try to have your stroke of brilliance a little earlier in the case."

Sam relaxed. "Yes, Your Honor. And thank you."

**SPN •SPN •SPN •SPN •SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN**

In the balcony overlooking Courtroom 102, John Winchester sat in the shadows, a few seats away from the balcony's only other inhabitant. "That's my son," he suddenly shared, although the two strangers had not exchanged so much as a word before.

The young woman looked up from her laptop. "Attorney Winchester?" John nodded. She smiled. "I'm a law student at Oregon State, and I just came up to Portland today to observe some courtroom action. I've never met your son — but that was really something! You must be proud of him."

John nodded again. "I am. Both my boys turned out well."

His neighbor stood, closing her laptop and shoving it into a backpack. "You're very lucky," she smiled. "I guess I'd better check the docket again and find another trial for this afternoon!"

"Apparently," John smiled, and his neighbor waved good-bye as she exited the balcony. John looked back at the main courtroom floor, and saw Dean shaking hands with Sam's client. He was careful not to make any movement in the balcony, so that no one would glance up and see him, but the smile stayed on his face. "I'm proud of them both," he whispered, "both of my sons."

**End, Chapter 6**


	7. Chapter 7

**Blast from the Past**

**by FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer:** All things Supernatural owned and operated by CW, Eric Kripke, et al.

**A/N:** FYI — I know you're out there: silently reading.

**Chapter 7: Old School, New School**

Sam had been understandably happy at lunch. He didn't want to drink, as he was going back to the office, but he insisted on buying Dean enough beer for both of them. He had plied his brother with burger-and-booze, then poured him into a cab and sent him back to his place, where Dean had taken a rare and thoroughly enjoyable afternoon nap.

Waking up was not such a joy, however. Dean wouldn't characterize himself as hungover, but he definitely had a headache. He tossed a couple of aspirin, grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator, popped the original "Die Hard" into the DVD player, and settled on the couch about an hour before Sam usually got home.

Apparently he fell asleep again sometime between the office Christmas party and the righteous cop in the parking lot. He woke slowly when something plopped down on the couch next to him, and it took him disturbingly long to recognize his little brother. "Hey," he greeted, sitting up straighter and taking another gulp of water from the half-full bottle.

"Hey," Sam grinned. "Some hunter you are. Didn't even hear me come in. I've been banging pots and pans around in the kitchen for half an hour — dinner's almost ready."

Dean grimaced. "I hope you didn't go crazy — I'm not really all that hungry."

Sam nodded sagely. "Right. More mac & cheese for me and dad."

In spite of himself, Dean's interest perked up. "Mac and cheese? That homemade casserole? You made it last time I was here."

"Right," Sam said again. "I picked up a banana cream pie on the way home. I know you prefer straight-up apple, but bananas are good for a hangover."

Dean looked affronted. "I didn't say anything about a hangover. I just have a little headache. Did you get some of that really good bread, like we had last time?"

"Absolutely," Sam smiled. "That's why I stopped at the bakery. The pie was just an afterthought."

"Pie is never an afterthought," Dean objected, and Sam's smile widened.

"So what have you and Dad been hunting, lately?"

Dean relaxed further into the couch. He didn't often get the opportunity to be honest about his work — and it was a relief not to hide anything. "Vamps,' he answered. "Got a nest of 'em, back in Kentucky, of all places. Luke was with us for that, before he came out here to help Garth, and almost became Wolf Chow."

Sam nodded. "So is this 'Garth' based on the West Coast?"

Dean drained the bottle of water, then shook his head. "Nah; he wanders all over, just like the rest of us. Go wherever the job takes us."

Sam frowned. "Don't you ever want to settle in one place? Maybe have a family of your own?"

Dean thought for a moment, then sighed. "Sammy. I've had my fun — you know that — and I've known some women I could see spending some more quality time with…but how can I 'un-know' what I know? How can I pretend not to know what's out there? Vamps, wolves, demons, ghosts, Wendigos — all of it. I know, and I have to do something about it, because not all that many people are out here fighting this battle."

Sam shifted on the couch. "So it will never be over for you…for Dad…even if you find the yellow-eyed demon that started Dad down this path?"

Dean shrugged, but didn't answer.

It was Sam's turn to sigh. "What about Yellow Eyes? Do you guys ever get a lead on that anymore?"

The front door opened and closed, and approaching footsteps could be heard coming in their direction. Dean didn't answer his brother right away, but looked expectantly toward the doorway. Sam followed his gaze with his own eyes, and soon, John appeared. He nodded at his sons in greeting, then sank into the recliner that faced the couch. "Something smells good," he remarked.

Dean grinned. "It is — Sammy's a regular chef these days"

John smiled when Sam rolled his eyes. "So what have you boys been up to?"

"Last I knew I was watching _Die Hard_," Dean answered, looking toward the dark television. "But I guess it's over."

Sam laughed. "Dude. I turned it off when I got home and found you asleep on the couch."

John lifted an eyebrow. "You let someone sneak up on you and take a remote out of your hand?" he asked Dean. "I'd better get you back in the game before you get so relaxed you decide to just move in with your brother."

There was a moment of awkward silence. Then Sam cleared his throat. "So. Dean was just catching me up on some recent hunts — and I was wondering…" — he cleared his throat again — "…well…do you ever get a lead on Yellow Eyes anymore?"

John looked at Dean while he answered. "Sometimes."

Sam pressed. "When was the last time? What happened?"

"We got it cornered…" Dean began, but John interrupted.

"It got away," he announced loudly, "just like always." He dropped his gaze to his lap and brushed at an invisible piece of lint on his jeans. "So when will this remarkable dinner be ready, anyway?"

Sam looked at Dean, who shrugged silently and then looked down at his empty water bottle.

"I'll check," Sam said stiffly, rising from the couch. "Maybe you should wash up for dinner." He turned on his heel and strode toward the kitchen.

John and Dean listened to his footsteps fade, looking at each other. Finally Dean spoke, his voice just over a whisper "We should tell him."

John's expression hardened. "No," he responded curtly.

Dean leaned forward, dangling his hands between his knees and worrying the plastic bottle between them. "But what Yellow Eyes said…"

John stood. He looked down at his son. "Yellow Eyes is a demon, Dean. A. Demon. They can't be trusted, you know that. Demons lie. Your brother is fine. He's fine."

Dean swallowed, looking up. "Yes, sir."

John nodded, then turned to leave the room. Dean watched him go, sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. "He's right," he whispered. "Demons lie. Sammy's fine." Then he sighed again, and slowly rose from the couch. Once standing, he plastered a grin on his face and headed for the kitchen. "Bring on the grub!" he yelled. "And don't forget my pie!"

**SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN **

John pushed his plate away. "Damn, son. Who knew macaroni and cheese could taste like that? If I don't stop know, I'll have to unbutton my jeans."

Sam reddened and smiled, both pleased and embarrassed. "You sure you don't want some more? There's usually plenty for leftovers, but then, I don't usually have to take Dean's midnight kitchen raids into consideration."

"Hey!" Dean protested, and John smiled.

"I'm afraid I'll have to take my chances," he said, "especially if I want a slice of that pie."

Sam cut a slice of the pie and lifted it onto a dessert plate. "So where were you all afternoon?" he asked, sliding the pie toward his father.

John picked up his fork and frowned. "Library. These damn hybrids are just too new — I can't find any lore on them." He glanced at Dean. "I think we're going to have to go with what we know about Wendigos."

"It's out of its usually territory," Dean pointed out, reaching out to accept some pie from Sam.

John nodded, swallowing his first bite of pie. "Right. And they travel alone — no families, no tribes."

Dean frowned, a banana frozen mid-air. "But this one was smaller than a regular Wendigo…"

"That doesn't mean it's a young Wendigo," John argued. "When taken into consideration along with it being out of its territory, it could just mean that this Wendigo is a runt of some sort, driven from its usual hunting grounds."

Sam interrupted. "Wait," he smiled. "I might have something."

John and Dean both looked at him. "What?" they said, simultaneously.

Sam was still grinning. "I had some free time this afternoon — so I called Bobby. We talked about how traditional lore won't address something as new as the Wendigo hybrid — he hooked me up with somebody named…Ash. Ash-Something. He's a hunters' researcher, based at someplace called 'Harvelle's Roadhouse'."

John slowly lowered his fork to his plate, pushing the pie away. "I'm familiar with Harvelle's", he said.

Both Dean and Sam looked interested. "Have you worked with Ash?" Dean asked.

Their father shook his head. "Not directly," he answered vaguely, "But I've heard of him."

Sam digested this information, and then continued. "Well, Bobby can't say enough about him. He thinks the guy will write this generation's guide to hunting — what will become lore to future hunters. He uses a lot of cutting edge researching techniques, and he's already started cataloguing all the new information that hunters bring back to him."

"So you talked to this Ash?" Dean asked when his father remained silent.

"Yeah," Sam answered eagerly. "He doesn't have a lot — not too many hunters have run into these things. He's anxious to hear from me when the hunt is over. But based on what he's gathered so far, the hybrids do travel in families, and they're nomadic — he thinks they originally strayed away from typical hunting grounds to get away from 'pure' Wendigos; they seem to be enemies."

Dean looked at his father. "How about that, Dad? Sam's our researcher again!"

John pushed his chair back from the table and crossed his arms over his chest. "No, he's not," he declared. "Sam's been out of the hunting game too long," he continued bluntly. "He doesn't know what he's doing, anymore; not even with research."

Sam looked stunned, and Dean hurried to interrupt. "But, this Ash — other hunters use him…"

"I don't," responded John. "I use lore, and researchers like Bobby. I've got no reason to trust this Ash — and no reason to believe his take on the hybrid." He stood, leaving his half-eaten slice of pie on the table. "I'm still in charge here, Dean — and I say we go at this based on what we know to be true of the Wendigo. What we know from lore — and what we know from experience. Get your weapons ready — you and I go out at dawn. We're tracking this thing as long as we have to, so pack some MREs."

John didn't so much as look in Sam's direction before he strode from the dining room. Dean watched him go, then looked at his brother. Sam's face was chiseled in stone; his expression unreadable. Sam silently returned Dean's gaze, then stood and started clearing the table. "Have some more pie," he offered. "I'm just going to start loading the dishwasher."

"Sam…" Dean started, but Sam shook his head.

"Let it go, Dean. I'm all right."

Sam left for the kitchen with an armload of plates, and Dean looked at his long-awaited pie. Eventually, he lowered the fork to his plate, and stood to go clean his weapons.

He just wasn't all that hungry, anymore.

**End, Chapter 7 **


	8. Chapter 8

**Blast from the Past**

**by FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer:** All things Supernatural owned and operated by CW, Eric Kripke, et al.

**Chapter 8: Back-Up**

John was looking down at the stake in his hands, feeling the tip for sharpness, as he walked into the kitchen. "Pour yourself a thermos and let's get going, Dean," he said without looking up. "I want to be safely in place before the sun rises." The sound of coffee being poured didn't surprise him — but the voice that answered him did.

"Dean's making sure there's a good supply of holy water in the trunk of the Impala," Sam said. "He's already packed everything else up."

John looked up, startled. "Sam! You didn't have to get up to see us off, son. You programmed that fancy coffee maker of yours…that's all we need…" John plopped his duffle on the counter and unzipped it, shoving the stake inside. He smiled at Sam. "Appreciate it, though."

Sam returned the smile nervously. "I…wanted to talk to you, Dad. I didn't sleep all night."

John's smile grew fonder. "Don't worry about us, son. We'll be fine."

Sam shook his head slightly. "It's not that," he said, and then reddened. "I mean, of course I always worry about both of you," he stammered. "This isn't exactly the safest job in the world."

John frowned. "So if worrying didn't keep you awake, what did?"

Sam spoke quickly — he suspected his father's reaction would be quick and negative, and he wanted to get out as much as he could, first. "I think you should put this off a day. Tomorrow's Saturday, and I won't have to work."

Now John looked confused. "So?"

Sam stepped closer to his father, setting a thermos of coffee down on the counter. "I want to go on the hunt."

John's expression changed to incredulous. "You must be joking. What makes you think I'd agree to that?"

Sam looked defensive. "Dean told you we went out while you were gone — and I handled myself all right, then! And you say you're sure this is just one Wendigo hybrid — and a small one, at that. The two of you will be there, it's not like I'll be in any danger."

"Sam…" John started, but Sam kept talking.

"This is **my** hunt. I'm the one who figured out that there was something in those woods besides a serial killer, and I want to see this through."

John smiled — but it wasn't a friendly one. "Maybe you should have thought of that 15 years ago," he said, and Sam winced. "You wanted out," John continued. "Now you want in. Normal life kicked you in the ass, so you want a do-over. That's not how it works, Sam — you're either in, or you're out."

"Dad!" Sam's cell rang at the same time Dean shouted at their father. John turned to face his oldest, who had walked into the kitchen in time to hear the last part of the conversation, and Sam spun on his heel, happy to abandon this discussion for the cell phone lying on the dining room table. Dean waited until Sam had fully exited the kitchen, then hissed at John. "Why do you do this? It took me 10 years the first time to get you guys talking to each other again!"

"You're the one who insists that Sam is an adult," John responded angrily. "Adults argue. Adults don't always see eye-to-eye. I can't watch every word I say to him."

Dean glared. "I'm not asking you to — but why do you have to turn every disagreement into an ultimatum? 'You're either in, or you're out.' — God, Dad, this isn't _Project Runway_!"

John opened his mouth to respond, then tilted his head in genuine confusion. "What?"

"Dean watches fashion shows when Oprah's not on," Sam said from behind him, and John half-turned again. "What the hell are both of you talking about?"

"Shut-up, Sam," Dean warned. "I'm not in the mood."

Sam didn't look all that amused himself, however, and he jingled his car keys in his hand. "Just give me a few seconds to leave and the two of you can fight all day, for all I care. I'd stay and get in a few shots of my own, but it appears I'm the only one going out to the crime scene this morning."

John crossed his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow. "Not unless you intend to knock at least one of us out, first."

Sam sighed, impatience loosening his tongue. "Get over yourself, Dad. That was my contact with the P.D. — the Wendigo struck again last night, almost exactly in the same location. The woods around the crime scene will be crawling with cops all day — even if you could get past them somehow, the activity will keep the Wendigo away; at least for the day."

John cursed, and Dean paled. "Dammit," John growled. "We waited too long."

"What happened?" Dean asked at the same time.

"I'm not sure," Sam answered. "My contact just said that 'it happened again', and advised that I get out there. Don't do anything before you hear from me. I'll stop and get my briefcase on the way out, and just go on to the office." He looked his father straight in the eye. "Can I trust you not to do anything stupid?"

John actually took half a step toward Sam before Dean stepped between them. "Go," he said, shoving his brother toward the door. "I've got him. I swear, I have better luck with vampires and wolves than I do with you two!"

**SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN**

Nearly five hours later, Sam stood outside the courthouse, and felt his phone vibrate. He paused, set his briefcase on the ground, and unhooked his phone from the waistband of his dark jeans. He rolled his eyes when he saw Dean's number, ignored the call, and returned the phone to its usual resting place. It was the third time Dean had called in the last three hours. Two hours before that, after leaving the crime scene, Sam had still been too pissed off to speak to either his brother or his father. He had texted a brief, "Crime scene compromised; explain later; wait.", and gone out to breakfast by himself. Then he had gone to his office to organize the papers he wanted to access quickly during this meeting. At 9:00 a.m. sharp, he had called the District Attorney and requested an emergency meeting. He'd had to play hardball to get one — eventually offering to call Judge Henry and file several dozen new pre-trial motions — but finally, it was 10:30. Show time.

Sam started to straighten his tie, then remembered he was still dressed in the jeans and t-shirt he had worn to the crime scene. He probably should have gone home to change — but that would have meant seeing his father again when he still felt like breaking the old man's jaw, so he hadn't done it. He gave himself a quick once-over, checking for dirt and leaves, then squared his shoulders and entered the building.

He rode the elevator to the offices on the sixth floor. D.A. Susan Emerson had a large office — a corner suite — but she had instructed him to report to Conference Room B for the meeting. Sam rapped on the door, then swung it open. D.A. Emerson was waiting for him — along with her law clerk, two paralegals, and several deputy D.A.s, including a scowling Scott Anderson, still licking his wounds over the Augistyniak case. Sam was a little surprised at the crowd, but tried not to show it as he approached the vacant end of the table, and placed his briefcase solidly on the top.

"Casual Friday, I see," deadpanned Anderson.

Sam looked at him and smiled cordially. "I do apologize for my appearance. I've been at a crime scene this morning." He didn't imagine it — everyone in the room sat up a little straighter. Sam continued to stand.

D.A. Emerson did not invite him to sit. "I heard there was an incident last night."

"I'm sure you did," Sam responded smoothly. "Just as I'm also sure that the similarities to my client's case have not escaped you."

Anderson spoke again. "The murder occurred near the original crime scene, and your client was incarcerated at the time — is that all you're here to tell us?" He snorted. "Come on, Winchester, surely you've heard of copycat murders."

"I have," Sam agreed pleasantly. He leaned over and clicked open his briefcase, still talking to the room while he did so. "My client's story, however," — he reached inside the case and tossed several newspapers onto the desk — "was always considered so preposterous that the police didn't even tell the press. His description of the perpetrator has never been released to the public." He then tossed a yellow legal pad on top of the newspapers. "I confirmed that a few hours ago with both Chief of Police Len Guthrie, and Media Liasion Officer Katherine Smith-Davis, in case you doubt my story."

Anderson glanced at his boss, and decided to let her speak. "And your point?" she asked, feigning boredom.

"My point," answered Sam, "is that there were three teenagers in the woods last night — drinking and partying, yes — but still, the two who escaped both have almost identical descriptions of the perp. Identical to each other, and identical to my client's. As for the physical 'evidence' in this case, that can easily be explained away by my client's also unchanging testimony regarding trying to help the victims."

No-one responded to his statement right away, so Sam reached into his briefcase again. This time he withdrew another legal pad that contained the rest of the research Ash had done for him. "Not only that," he continued. "I have here case file numbers for similar murders occurring throughout the Pacific Northwest, over the last three years." He looked down at his legal pad, and read aloud. "One three years ago near Boise, Idaho. Another two years ago near Spokane, Washington. A third eleven months ago in Yreka, California — and of course, you know about the two instances here, occurring less than two months apart." He dropped the pad on top of his other visual aids and let his gaze sweep each individual at the table, landing on D.A. Emerson. "All of the murders occurred in wooded areas. In the three other cases in which there were witnesses," he continued, "the physical description of the assailant is the same. A tall, hairy, strong, beast with glowing eyes."

Anderson tried to laugh again, but the sound more closely resembled a choke. "Now you expect us to put out a warrant on Sasquatch?"

Sam let barely disguised disgust show on his face when he looked at Anderson. "Try to follow along: I'm a bad man, in the Pacific Northwest, and I want to kill people wandering around in the woods, and not be identified. Use your imagination. What sort of disguise do you think might work, out here?"

Anderson scowled and opened his mouth to reply, but Emerson interrupted, raising one hand in the air. "Where did you get this information?"

"My professors used to call it research," Sam responded. "It's why my clients pay me so well — just ask your buddy, over there."

Now Emerson was scowling. "Remember who I am," she said archly, and still standing, Sam leaned his bulk ominously over the table.

"I believe you are the District Attorney who, when confronted with irrefutable evidence of false arrest and a probable at-large serial killer, a serial killer whose attacks are escalating, has done nothing about either situation." He stood up straight, again. "Would that be correct, Ms. Emerson? I want to make sure my statements are accurate at the noon press conference I have scheduled."

Anderson, and most of the other people in the room, were now bouncing their attention back-and-forth between their boss and Sam Winchester, as if watching a tennis match.

Emerson slowly stood. "Postpone your press conference. Give my staff two hours to check out your claims. If everything is as you say, I will appear at the press conference with you, to announce that this office is dropping all charges against your client."

Sam kept his reply brief. "Agreed." He looked at his watch. "I'll reschedule the press conference for the courthouse steps at 1:00 p.m."

Emerson nodded, walking to the end of the table and extending her hand toward Sam. "Thank you," she said to him, then glanced back over her shoulder. "Anderson — gather up all this information and get to work. Use as many associates as you have to — you're on a deadline."

**End, Chapter 8**


	9. Chapter 9

**Blast from the Past**

**by FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer:** All things Supernatural owned and operated by CW, Eric Kripke, et al.

**Chapter 9: Showtime**

Sam walked back to his office after his showdown with Emerson. He quickly assigned Donna to the task of calling all of his media contacts and scheduling a 1:00 p.m. press conference — he had been bluffing when he said that he already had one scheduled — and retreated to his inner sanctum, where he made several calls of his own.

The first was to Jeff Sanderson's father, who immediately approved of Sam's plan for his son. While Sam was making his next call, and scrambling in a desk drawer for a fresh legal pad, he found a month-old claim ticket for the dry cleaner. At first he just tossed it back into the drawer; then he remembered that he had taken a suit and a dress shirt in on that trip. He completed his arrangements for Sanderson as soon as possible, and then ran the six blocks to the cleaner's. By the time he had picked up his suit, shirts, and talked the cleaner into selling him an unclaimed tie, Sam had just enough time left before the press conference to walk back to the courthouse, change his clothes in the ground floor bathroom (locking his jeans and t-shirt into his briefcase), and text Dean.

Sam inhaled deeply as he finger-combed his hair in the bathroom mirror. "This is it," he whispered, smiling at his reflection and starting his ritual self-pep-talk. "Look confident. Expect to win. Take no prisoners."

Then he squared his shoulders, and strode confidently from the room.

**SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN**

Dean read the text and looked across the dining room table at John. The two of them had just finished lunch — mostly because they couldn't think of anything else to do. They weren't used to having so much down-time unless one or both of them was hurt. The laundry was done, the Impala was detailed to within an inch of her life, local Catholic churches had unwittingly restocked their supply of Holy Water, and a few dozen rounds of ammo were packed with silver. There was nothing left to do while they were waiting on Sam besides stare at each other, and eat — and both men found eating to be the preferred choice.

"Sam says to turn on channel 12 at 1:00," he announced, then he stood and led the way into the home's den. Dean picked up the remote and settled onto one end of the couch facing the television, while John, still eating a banana, sat on the other end. After several commercials, a local newscast began broadcasting a "breaking news" press conference live from the steps of the county courthouse. The Winchesters listened with interest as the reporter on the scene faced the camera and recapped the story of Jeff Sanderson, beginning with the murder of the little girls, and the subsequent arrest. "Samuel Winchester, Sanderson's attorney of record, and District Attorney Susan Emerson will be appearing jointly. any moment now, to make a statement. Speculation, especially since last night's tragic murder of local teen Casey Debora, which took place only 50 feet away from the murders of the children nearly two months ago, is that charges against Sanderson have been dropped. Wait — they're coming out now."

John tossed his banana peel on the table and leaned forward, frowning at the screen, as the door of the courthouse opened. First to emerge was an attractive woman in her 40s, red-headed and probably nearly six feet tall, in her heeled shoes — she wasn't that much shorter than Sam, who walked behind her until they reached the top step. The woman stopped, and Sam continued down one step, so that they were nearly the same height.

"Was he wearing a suit when he left this morning?" Dean asked, and John shook his head.

"The tennis-shoes-and-suit thing must be something they do out here in Portland," he mused aloud, and Dean chuckled.

"District Attorney Susan Emerson" scrolled along the bottom of the screen when the camera focused on the woman, who began to speak. She read from a statement in her hands, and did not look at the camera. "As you are aware, there was another murder last night in one of the thickly wooded areas of Forest Park. While I am not at liberty to divulge details at this time, I can tell you that there were several similarities, besides location, between this murder and the murders almost two months ago of Rachel Davis and McKenzie Farmer. After speaking with Chief of Police Len Guthrie and considering the evidence, this office does not believe we can achieve a conviction against Jeff Sanderson, and we have dropped all charges."

"Not exactly shouting his innocence to the rooftops," Dean noted, and John grunted. Emerson went on to answer a few questions, mostly rephrasing everything she had just said, and then turned the press conference over to Sam. The camera re-focused on Sam, zooming in on his face and upper body, and "Local Attorney Samuel Winchester" scrolled across the screen.

"Good afternoon," Sam smiled, looking decidedly more relaxed and happy than the D.A. had. "I appreciate your coming here today." Sam let his smile fade and made eye contact with as many people as he could while he spoke, without notes. "My client has proclaimed his innocence since the moment he was first arrested," Sam said. "His story has never changed, and all evidence gathered against him was circumstantial. My position is that much, if not all, of this so-called evidence never would have been allowed into trial. I certainly planned to argue against it. Nevertheless, both my client and I are extremely grateful that Chief of Police Guthrie and District Attorney Emerson have at last reached the same conclusion regarding my client's innocence. We offer our heartfelt sympathies to the family and friends of Casey Debora, Rachel Davis, and McKenzie Farmer, and we fervently hope that the murderer — or murderers — responsible for these homicides will be soon apprehended, and brought to justice."

Several reporters started shouting at once. The loudest caught Sam's attention. "Is Sanderson at large now?"

Sam frowned at the reporter, uncomfortable with the term. "I will be picking up my client from the county jail this afternoon, but I assure you that he will never be 'at large' in Portland again. He has been understandably and terribly traumatized by these false accusations. His reputation has been tarnished, and he does not wish to reside in this area any longer." Sam raised his voice. "My client is a free man — an innocent man." His voice fell back to its usual tone. "For my client, true justice can never come. He will always have to deal with what he's been through over the last two months, and now he has to start his life over."

Sam answered a few more questions, and then the press conference was over. The camera focused again on the station's on-scene reporter. Dean muted the sound during the reporter's recap. "Woah," was all he said.

John sat back on the couch. "If I ever need an attorney," he said, "try and get me that guy."

Dean smiled; it was the first decent thing John had said about Sam since that morning's argument. "I'll have to get some kind of deal on the price," he said. "That dude makes about a hundred an hour — probably gonna raise his rates, too, after the week he's had."

John shook his head, incredulous. "Tell him…tell him that I knew his mother, once. Will that get me a deal?"

"I think that's pretty much saved your life several times, so far," Dean answered, and John snorted, then turned serious.

"This is why I haven't told him about what Yellow Eyes said," John shared. "Sam worked hard for this, and he's good at it. Even with the heartbreak of Kim leaving him, he's happy — because he's doing what he loves. He never wanted hunting in his life."

Dean considered that a moment, then replied. "Sammy never said that, Dad. He said that he didn't want hunting to be his **entire** life — that's not the same thing. You're the one who always saw in black-and-white. Don't get me wrong — I think it's great when you two try to talk to each other and have a civil relationship — but maybe it's time to take things another step. Maybe Sam wants to be more involved than you've always assumed."

John nodded slowly. "Maybe," he finally agreed, his expression and tone of voice growing melancholy. "Besides, if Yellow Eyes really has plans for him…I owe it to Sam to let him know that."

"I agree," said Dean fervently.

John stood slowly, joints creaking. "Sounds like Sam's gonna be awhile," he said. "I think I'll go take a walk."

**SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN**

Sam watched Sgt. Allison McSweeney lift his Glock out of his briefcase and start to affix a claim tag to the weapon.

"You've been busy, Counselor."

"How so, Al?"

She placed the gun in the metal bin that she would later double lock for security. "Well, I see you got time to repair your Glock; I saw the press conference and started processing your client for you; and you're so distracted you're storing extra clothes in your briefcase."

Sam reddened, remembering then his jeans and t-shirt. "Long story," he shrugged.

Sgt. McSweeney laughed. "Hey, I'm real sorry about giving you and Sanderson such a hard time. Guess you were right after all."

"Looks like it," Sam agreed, pushing a gym bag full of Sanderson's clothing across the counter. "I stopped by his apartment, and brought him something to wear. If I remember correctly, the clothes he was arrested in are covered with blood."

McSweeney nodded. "Right — I was hoping you'd think to do that. I hate sending guys out in Agent Orange."

Sam smiled. "Too bad about Casey Debora, though. Split my client's case wide open, but nobody wanted to see that."

"Yeah," she sighed. "We weren't expecting something so close to the original crime scene, let me tell ya. We're gonna patrol the area 24/7 for awhile."

Sam's heart sank. "Really?"

She nodded. "Just a couple of extra cops in the park, down on that end. Walking patrol. I'm still a reserve, on the O.T. list, so I'll be walking a beat tonight myself."

"No kidding," Sam responded.

She shook her head. "Nope. 10:00 p.m. until 2:00 a.m. It's gonna feel like the old days."

"You started out on a walking beat?"

"Right," she answered, returning the thoroughly examine gym bag to him. "Down around Burnside."

"What made you switch to desk duty at the jail?"

Al winced. "I lost my nerve for the beat, after a bad shooting. Lost a fellow officer — it was tough…I was so young. Not prepared for that."

"Like anybody ever can be," Sam commiserated.

She shrugged. "Sometimes I miss the street," she confessed. "That's why I've stayed active as a reserve."

Sam smiled. "You're still young; maybe you'll go back, someday. Sometimes we run so hard after the things that we think will save us, we don't fully realize what we're leaving behind."

McSweeney looked at him with interest. "Who knows?" was her only response before changing the subject. "Got your guy in Attorney Consult 3, waiting for you." She winked. "I didn't tell him — thought you'd want to do that."

"Thanks, Al," Sam answered, half-turning to head down the corridor. Then he stopped and looked back at her over his shoulder. "Be careful tonight."

She blushed. "Why, Counselor. I didn't think you cared!"

Sam chuckled, then took off at a brisk pace. He had things to do.

**SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN**

Jeff Sanderson looked up and grinned when Sam entered the room. He held up his hands. "Look — they forgot to handcuff me." The he watched with interest as Sam place the gym bag onto the table, and slid the bag toward him. "What did you bring me?" Sanderson asked. "I wasn't expecting nuthin'."

"I know." Sam sank into a chair on the opposite side of the table and reached into his pocket, withdrawing his cell phone. "I have something to show you." He opened the iPhone's web browser, navigated to KPTV's website, and clicked on a link to the video of the 1:00 p.m. press conference. Then he handed the phone to Sanderson, sat back, and waited.

A few minutes later, a stunned Sanderson looked up, tears glistening in his eyes. "Is this legit?" he asked. "Am I getting out?"

Sam grinned. "Brought you some street clothes. That's what in the bag."

Sanderson lowered his face to his hands. "Thank God," he said in a muffled voice, before looking up again. "I can't thank you enough, Mr. Winchester. Whatever my father is paying you, it's not enough."

Sam let his smile fade. "There are conditions," he stated, and Sanderson blinked.

"What? I thought the D.A. said she was dropping all charges."

Sam leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table between them. "I cut that deal, Sanderson — and I can cut another one, and get you thrown back into the system faster than you can change your clothes. The conditions aren't hers — they're mine."

Sanderson swallowed. "Okay," he said warily. "What are they?"

Sam sat back in his chair. "As soon as you're processed out of here, I will drive you straight to PDX; you won't even go home. I packed you a suitcase with more clothes, some toothpaste, a few other basics — it's in the car. My secretary Donna and her grandson Scott will meet us there, and they will accompany you all the way to Rhode Island, where Donna will check you into a six-month lockdown sexual addiction rehab program at one of the country's most secure, and most effective, treatment centers."

Sanderson shook his head once. "But I told you — I've never touched one girl, ever! I was telling the truth!"

"And you never will," Sam responded. "Your father and I both want some assurances that your condition will not progress over the years and blossom into something that all of us will regret. This is a very secure facility — most of the patients there, are there because they have been sentenced to be there." Sanderson was silent, and Sam went on. "Both your father and I will receive regular updates regarding the success — or failure — of your treatment. Your father has paid the center in full. When —and if — you 'graduate' in six months, he will help you financially, to get you set up to live your life elsewhere, somewhere you won't be plagued by what happened here in Oregon. Someplace where no-one will know about the treatment center; this can be a fresh start for you, if you take this opportunity seriously. You can be free, not only from this murder charge, but free from the demons that want to drag you down and turn you into the kind of monster we all read about in the papers, every day." Sam leaned toward Sanderson again, and lowered his voice. "I know you felt shame when you told me about this, Jeff; I know that you understand that this is wrong."

Sanderson hung his head. "I do," he finally admitted quietly. He looked back at Sam. "Don't think I haven't thought about what could happen someday, mysef…I'll go."

Sam nodded, and sat back. "Donna's grandson, by the way, played football for the U of O — and now he's in MMA training. You don't want to mess with him."

Sanderson shook his head. "I won't give them any trouble — you're right, I need to do this. I **want** to be free from this…obsession." He shook his head in disbelief once, and permitted a small smile. "I can't believe you got my father to pay for all of this. We haven't been close for years — I thought he hated me, or at ;east was angry…" He sighed. "I wouldn't join the family business, and he didn't take it too well."

Sam's face closed and he leaned back in his chair. "He never mentioned that to me."

Sanderson looked honestly bewildered. "Yeah, I get that. Maybe **I** was the one who was blowing everything out of proportion… I mean, sure, things were said in the heat of the moment — but not just by my father. I lost control a little, too." He shrugged, and looked away, to stare at the blank wall. "Thing is, I didn't do anything specifically to hurt the old man, I never intended for us to stop being a family…" — he looked back at Sam, his expression almost pleading — "…I just wanted to see what else was out there, ya know?"

Sam swallowed a lump in his throat and suddenly stood, gesturing toward the gym bag. "Well, change your clothes so we can get out of here. If we get to the airport early, your father's expense account will buy us an early dinner."

**SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN**

The three Winchesters listened in silence for a few moments as the Impala's engine cooled; then Sam twisted in the front passenger seat, so that he could see both his father, who had been driving, and Dean, whose shorter legs had landed him (unhappily) in the back. "We're all on the same page, right?"

Dean sighed, frowning as he tried to stretch out at least one of his legs. "Sam, we've gone over this a dozen times. You distract your lady cop friend, while Dad and I sink undetected into the woods." He snickered. "Although I still don't know what makes you think you're a ladykiller, all of a sudden."

"It's not sudden," Sam shot back, and Dean laughed aloud.

"Knock it off, both of you," demanded John. "Sam, you go after your friend — Dean, let's get the duffles out of the trunk."

Sam nodded briskly and opened the car door, hoping that neither man noticed the extra weight in the duffles. He hadn't exactly shared his entire plan.

Sam tipped the seat forward so that Dean could climb out, lifted his hand in a semi-salute to his father, and started walking toward the paved path that would take him into Forest Park.

Within five minutes, Sam had entered a more populated area of the park. Part of him was surprised — after all, it was dark, almost midnight, and there had recently been three unsolved murders in this park — but the more cynical part of him had stopped being surprised at human behavior years before. He made his way through the park proper — rapidly, but not so quickly that he would attract attention — and toward the section where the murders had taken place. As he moved, Sam looked around for Garth. He wasn't sure what the man looked like — Bobby had just said "skinny and completely out of place", a description that wasn't turning out to be of much help. Sam just hoped that the hunter was as reliable as Bobby said he was, and also that he was smart enough to stay out of sight, when Dean and John came by the same direction in a few minutes.

Nearly 20 minutes had passed before Sam spotted Al, patrolling the border of the park between the running path and the crime scene of the first murders. Blessedly, she was alone. Sam slowed his step, trying to appear as if he were just out for a midnight stroll.

He called out when he was about 15 feet away from her. "Hey, Al; is that you?"

Sgt. McSweeney turned and flashed a powerful beam in his direction. "Winchester?" She sounded surprised, but took a step towards him. "What the hell are you doing out here this time of night?"

Sam's long legs made quick work of the distance that remained between them. "Go ahead with your scheduled patrol," he said. "I'll walk with you for a ways, if that's all right."

"Sure," she snickered. "Everyone who comes to Forest Park in the middle of the night should have their own personal police bodyguard." She allowed Sam to guide her back in the other direction, in the direction she had originally been heading.

Sam smiled. "That's unfortunately true, these days," he said. He tossed his head in the general direction of the park proper. "I can't speak for everyone else who's hanging around here tonight, but I just couldn't sleep. Exciting day, you know." McSweeney grunted in agreement. "Anyway," continued Sam, "I decided to take a walk — maybe a run. I don't live far from here, but still, I didn't really aim for the park on purpose. I just kind-of ended up here. I was about to turn around and head home when I remembered that you said you'd be patrolling here tonight."

They came in view of another officer, and McSweeney slowed her step. "That's Naughton, out of the 2 - 4," she said, then raised her voice a little. "Still quiet at the original crime scene," she called out. "How're things here?"

Officer Naughton glanced around and shrugged. "Quiet as far as criminal activity," he said. "I've had to shoo off a couple of looky-loos, though."

McSweeney nodded. "Not surprised; there's still a lot of activity here tonight. No-one seems to be trying to see the first crime scene, though — I guess it's old news, now!"

Naughton laughed, then nodded toward Sam. "Hey — isn't that the attorney for the guy they busted?"

"That was a case of false arrest," Sam answered. "Al's a friend of mine — I was just walking with her for awhile, keeping her awake."

Naughton chuckled. "Good luck with that," he said. He looked at McSweeney. "See you again in about 10, Al," he said, pivoting to continue his patrol.

"See ya," Al called, and then she and Sam turned and walked the other way again. "This is the excitement of patrol duty, Winchester. I walk from one crime scene to the other, about 10 times an hour. Impressed?"

"I've always found you very impressive, Sergeant McSweeney," Sam answered huskily, and their steps slowed.

"I declare, Samuel Winchester…are you flirtin' with little ol' me?"

Sam smiled, his white teeth gleaming in the night. "Would I get anywhere if I was?"

Al laughed, continuing her slow stroll toward the original crime scene. "Well, now, I don't know. I'm not sure I'm interested in being your rebound fling."

"That's not fair," Sam protested, and she looked up at him. He shrugged. "I'm not saying that it's an inaccurate assumption, just that it's not fair."

McSweeney barked out a laugh and reached out to shove at Sam playfully. "Sweet-talker," she teased, and then Sam laughed too. Suddenly Sam grabbed her elbow with one hand and pointed to the sky with the other, stopping their stroll entirely. "Make a wish," he commanded. "Shooting star."

Sgt. McSweeney followed his gaze with her own, stared for a few seconds, and then sighed. "That's a shooting 747 headin' for PDX, Winchester."

Sam looked down at Allison and winked, smiling. "Doesn't matter," he confided. "You can give me my wish anyway." And then he leaned down to kiss her.

The kiss was slow, sweet, delicious — and Sam found himself enjoying it a little too much. He hoped he had stalled Al long enough for his father and Dean to slip into the crime scene, and he started to pull away.

Al was having none of that, however. Her hand snuck up to start playing with his hair, and Sam found his own hands framing her face while the two of them turned a stolen kiss into a passionate promise. When their breathing got heavy. Al reluctantly pulled away. "My lands," she panted. "I'm still on the job, here."

Sam smoothed her hair and then took a step back himself. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not usually this passionate about crime scenes."

Al giggled, and then stopped abruptly, canting her flashlight to look at her watch., "Damn," she said. "I'd better start back, or Naughton will call for back-up."

"I understand," Sam assured the police officer. "I don't want to interfere wth your job. I just came by to say hello anyway…but…is it okay…that is…can I call you?"

"No," she answered, and Sam's eyebrows lifted in surprise. McSweeney giggled again, then unbuttoned the breast pocket of her uniform blouse and extracted a business card. "You don't have my number, genius."

"Oh." Sam was glad that the darkess of night was disguising his embarrassment, as he felt his face flush with heat. "Right." He took the card and slipped it into the back pocket of his jeans. "Well. Solved that little problem, didn't we?"

"Here to serve and protect," McSweeney answered. "You be careful on the streets going home, now."

"I will," Sam promised, "and you be careful out here. Let Naughton watch your back."

"You watch it first," she teased, and abruptly turned around to start her patrol again. She greatly exaggerated the swing of her hips, and Sam found himself laughing. She stopped and turned to wave, and he lifted a hand before he turned himself, and walked slowly in the other direction.

Sam passed near the glow of a streetlight over the running path, and checked his watch. "Any time now," he muttered, slowly passing the original crime scene and continuing into the shadows beyond. He had travelled another 25 feet along the running path when he heard it.

"Help me!" a man's voice drifted towards them from beyond the second crime scene. "It's chasing me, somebody help me!"

Sam looked quickly over his shoulder and saw both McSweeney and Naughton take off in a dead run — moving even farther away from him, their attention fully on whatever fresh horror waited in front of them. He hesitated for a few moments, heard Garth call for help twice more, and then stepped backwards off the running path, letting the woods surrounding Forest Park swallow him.

**End, Chapter 9**


	10. Chapter 10

**Blast from the Past**

**by FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer:** All things Supernatural owned and operated by CW, Eric Kripke, et al.

**SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN**

**Chapter 10: Family Campout**

Sam pushed through the thick foliage for a few feet, until he reached a clear area big enough for him to squat down, and pull his flashlight out of one pocket, and his iPhone out of the other. He activated the phone and tapped on the GPS app he had downloaded that afternoon; it was locked onto a signal coming from Dean's duffle, where Sam had hidden the GPS unit, rolled up in a t-shirt. Thankfully the signal was still strong and the phone's app detected it easily, downloading a set of directions that led Sam through the woods.

The phone made its own light, so he kept the flashlight trained on the ground, so that he wouldn't trip over roots or other hazards of the forest. He moved through the brush with stealth — quietly. About halfway to Dean's location, Sam entered another small clearing. He paused for a moment to catch his breath, wishing his jacket pockets were big enough to hide a bottle of water, and moved the flashlight around the clearing, trying to determine its size. The beam picked up something at ground level, and Sam moved closer to the far edge of the clearing, to get a better look. He knelt down and concentrated the light on the markings in the forest floor that had caught his attention. Sam shivered, the hair raising on the back of his neck: tracks. He swung the flashlight beam out to follow the tracks, which disappeared into the deeper woods at the East edge of the clearing. He stood, and looked around nervously. These were either the tracks of the largest squirrel ever discovered — or he had stumbled upon the Wendigo hybrid's path home.

Sam hurried on, more anxious to find his father and brother now, and less careful about the noise he made. When his phone's app instructed him that he had arrived at his destination, Sam looked around with confusion — this looked like the middle of a thick forest, to him. Finally, the flashlight beam picked up a small break in the foliage, and Sam saw that he was on the edge of another clearing. _They must be in there_, he decided, _waiting until morning light to track the hybrid._

He was still trying to think of a way to defuse his father, who was sure to be angry, as he pocketed the phone and pushed through into the clearing. Sam barely had time to drop to the ground as an axe flew through the space where his head had just been, and buried itself in the trunk of a tree. "Holy shit!" he heard Dean cry out. "Sammy!"

Sam looked up apprehensively. Dean was on the far side of the clearing, pale and weaving a little where he stood. Their father was about halfway between them, a wooden stake clutched firmly in one hand, and a bottle of holy water in the other. "What the hell?" he breathed.

Sam slowly stood, brushing twigs and bark off his jeans, and then glanced behind him; moonlight clearly illuminated a silver-bladed axe buried in the tree. "If you didn't know it was me, why did you aim for the head?" he asked, looking back at his brother.

Dean took what was probably his first breath since he had released the axe, and frowned. "Because your head's as high as a Wendigo's heart, gigantor!"

John dropped the stake and the holy water, strode toward Sam, and gathered his son's jacket lapels in his hands. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he shouted, shaking Sam as if he weighed nothing. "We could have killed you!"

Sam put his hands on top of his father's, trying to pry him off. "Lower your voice," he pleaded. "We're still close enough to the path for the cops to hear shouting — plus, I think I found some Wendigo tracks."

John snarled, pushing Sam backwards as he let go. "Don't fucking speak to me," he growled lowly, and he turned his back on his son, moving to the opposite edge of the clearing and sitting down on the ground, next to his duffle.

Dean winced, then moved toward Sam, passing his brother so that he could pry his axe out of the tree — also not speaking.

Sam sighed, This was a little worse than he had imagined.

Cautiously, he moved to the middle of the clearing, where his father could hear him, even if he pretended not to. "I'm sorry," he said contritely. "I just wanted to be part of the hunt. I'm sorry."

His father didn't answer, but Dean stepped up behind him and spoke. "You've forgotten everything you ever knew about the hunt — making that kind of noise, barging in on other hunters unannounced." His tone was angry, and Sam hung his head in shame. "Damn, Sammy, I was on your side — I told Dad you could handle this. Obviously I was wrong."

Sam lifted his head, running a hand through his hair. "You're right. I was stupid."

"Damn straight." John finally spoke. "We're stuck with you now, though, aren't we? You don't even have any equipment — nothing more lethal on you than that damn iPhone."

Sam's tone became sheepish, and he looked at the ground in front of his father. "Actually…I snuck a few things into your duffles. Some extra MREs, a couple of my favorite knives, some clothes…" He looked at Dean and shrugged apologetically. "And you may find a GPS in one of your t-shirts. That's how I found you." He returned his attention to John, drawing back one panel of his jacket, like a midnight flasher. "I'm carrying the Glock — just in case we run into anything else while we're out here."

The corner of John's mouth twitched, but he successfully suppressed a grin. "Well, sit down," he invited gruffly, "now that you're here. What were you saying about tracks?"

Sam quickly settled cross-legged on the forest floor, between John and Dean, who were both facing him. The position left Sam's back exposed to the forest, but he wasn't concerned about that; he knew his family would watch his back — just as he would watch theirs.

"I came into the forest about 25 feet East of the original crime scene," he started to explain. "I figure we're about 10 feet West of there now — but I think we're going in the wrong direction."

Impatience shone clearly on John's face in the bright moonlight. "When the hybrid struck for the second time, he was moving West," he pointed out.

"I know," Sam agreed, "but the night Dean and I saw it — it took off through the trees, heading East. And there's another clearing about 20 feet East of this one. I rested there for a few moments, and I saw tracks — at the far East edge of that clearing. I think the hybrid must have a 'home base', or something. Maybe a cave. It travels in this direction to make its kills, because the area is so heavily populated."

John looked interested, and Dean questioned his brother. "But why keep coming back to the same place?"

Sam shrugged. "I have a few theories."

John smirked. "Please share."

The moonlight was bright enough to see each other clearly in the spaces of the forest that had no cover from the trees — but Sam was glad that the moon was not quite full; no-one could see his flush of embarrassment.

"Both kills," he explained, "had witnesses. The kills were interrupted. The hybrid comes here because of the population, but the population has been keeping it from finishing the job. Yeah, we end up with dead vics — but the hybrid has had to retreat every time; it gets no time to feed. Therefore, it keeps coming back — because it's trying to feed — and I think it may also be trying to provide nourishment to something else, something that never goes hunting on its own. Maybe there's an ill, or old — or young — hybrid waiting for it back at the home base."

Dean agreed with him. and turned his head to look at his father. "Think about it, Dad. You know other hunters have told us that they've found more than one hybrid together — plus, they're 'hybrids' in the first place because they're more humanized than traditional Wendigos."

He looked back at Sam, nodding. "I like the theory of another hybrid waiting for it — one too old, or sick, or young, to hunt on its own. If our hybrid feels some kind of family obligation to the other hybrid, that would explain why it doesn't just move on to new ground."

John somewhat reluctantly considered the premise presented by his sons. "If that's the case," he said, "my vote is for an older hybrid — maybe even one dying of old age. This hybrid is making rash and dangerous decisions." He looked at Sam, then Dean. "I know some humans like that, come to think of it, and they're both young people who haven't come into their full share of wisdom, yet."

The brothers looked at each other in silence for a few seconds; then Sam changed the subject. "So, I was thinking we should probably get deeper into the woods, anyway, in case Al or some other cop decides to take a stroll back here. We can move to the other clearing, where I saw the tracks."

"Good idea," John agreed, standing and then bending to grab his duffle. "It's starting to get a little cold out here anyway, and it's not like we can start a fire."

Dean was grinning when he stood. "Dad and I have sleeping bags attached to our duffles," he pointed out to his brother. "Did you hide one of those in my t-shirt, too?"

Sam drew his jacket tighter around his torso, and turned to lead the way to the other clearing. "Shut up," he grumbled.

**SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN * SPN • SPN**

The other clearing was smaller, set deeper into the woods, and had more cover from overhanging trees, so Sam had to leave his flashlight on when he showed the tracks to his father and brother.

"Fresh," nodded his father. "Could've been made by the hybrid last night while it was escaping." He clapped Sam on the shoulder. "Good job, son. We'll follow these at first light."

Sam looked pleased, then suddenly shivered. "Wish we could have a fire," he said.

John pushed a tightly rolled sleeping bag at him. "Here — might as well take this and try to get some sleep. My coat's heavier than your jacket; besides, I'll be keeping watch all night."

"What about Dean?" asked his youngest.

"Dean has his own bag — plus, he'll be keeping watch as well. One of us covers the East and South, the other covers the North and West."

"I can help," Sam protested, but John shook his head as he settled cross-legged onto the hard ground.

"Clearing's not that big, Sam, we don't need three lookouts. Better get some rest while you're got the chance."

Dean grunted as he settled on the opposite site of the clearing — which was just a few feet away. "Only about four hours until dawn anyway, Sammy."

Sam hesitated, then lay the sleeping bag down between his father and his brother, and crawled inside. On the one hand, he felt as if he was being dismissed, like they weren't taking him and his capabilities seriously; on the other, he vowed not to cause an uproar over it — John had abandoned his original search direction in favor of Sam's tracks, after all, and had even offered him public praise. Sam lay on his back, hands behind his head, and blinked at the twinkling stars above. Every time he got out of the city, he told himself that he needed to get out more often — the only lights he saw at night in Portland were streetlamps and headlights.

He was thinking about a camping trip he had taken with Kim and Cristina the summer before. Kim had been distant and cranky, complaining that she had only gone camping before at Best Western — in retrospect, she had probably already been involved with The Actor, and pissed off about being away from him for five solid days — but Cristina had loved the experience. He had showed her constellations in the sky every night, and taken her fishing for the first time, and taught her the names of some of the trees, and plants…he swallowed a lump in his throat. God, how he wished that little girl was still with him. If he was truthful with himself, he missed her more than he missed Kim.

John's soft voice suddenly interrupted his thoughts. "You awake, Sam?"

"Yeah," he answered softly. Despite the fact that there was a Wendigo hybrid somewhere in these woods, the night still seemed so peaceful — he almost hated to interrupt the sounds of the forest. John sighed, which focused Sam's attention on his father. "What?" he asked.

He hard John inhale deeply. "Son," he father finally said, "you can't play around at being a hunter. Your training needs to be sharp all the time."

"I know that," Sam responded a tad defensively. He was still thinking about what else he wanted to say when John's next words surprised him so much he leaned up on one elbow to look at the man.

"If you want to be part of the life, you need to treat hunting more seriously than you would a hobby. You can meet up with Dean, or both of us, every few months; keep your feet wet and your senses sharp. Maybe we can all meet up at Bobby's for a few days this summer for a good old-fashioned boot camp; hard physical training, like I put you boys through when you were younger. I can connect you with the network of hunters who make their base the West Coast, too."

Sam stared at his father in shock. "What?" he finally asked. "Are you saying it's not 'in' or 'out', anymore?"

John was staring at Dean over Sam's head. In the darkness, Sam barely saw John nod his head briefly. "I have something to tell you," his father said.

Sam was feeling unsettled, and he wasn't entirely sure why. He stalled for time, kicking his way out of the sleeping bag until he could fully sit up on the forest floor. Then he looked expectantly at his father."

John sighed again, and ran a hand through his hair. "Right after Dean was here last year — soon after your wife left — he and I caught up with Yellow Eyes. We trapped him."

Sam nodded. "You told me," he reminded them. "You also said that he got away." His face creased in concern. "How? Was somebody hurt?"

John shook his head. "It was me — rookie mistake. I let the demon distract me, make me angry…it said…some things, and I lost my head, rushed at it. I wanted to twist its head right off its neck, but all I did was break the line of the devil's trap that was holding it." His face twisted in fresh anger. "Son of a bitch didn't even take the opportunity to kill us both — just laughed at us, pinned us against opposite walls of the cabin we were in, and left. By the time the energy released us and I could see straight again, there was no trail to follow."

Sam glanced back at Dean, whose face was impassive. "Must've really pissed you off," he said finally, looking back at John.

John nodded. "Yellow Eyes…it said…that Mary made some kind of deal, before she died." He swallowed, looking at Dean again to draw strength. "It said that she promised him something, and that he was ready to collect."

"What did she promise?" Sam asked.

John now looked at his son full in the face, his own expression hard. "Demons lie," he said harshly. "That's rule #1. I never should have let Yellow Eyes get to me."

Sam looked at Dean again. His brother looked back with an expression of sadness on his face, and Sam felt a chill of fear run up his spine. Looking back at his father, he asked again. "What the hell did Yellow Eyes say?"

John let several seconds pass in silence. Just when it looked like Sam was going to ask again, he answered. "Yellow Eyes said that it has plans for you, Sam. It said that Mary — before you or your brother were ever born — she bartered her second-born son, to save my life. Azazel said that Mary died when she tried to protect you from him."

Sam sat in stony silence for a long beat. Then he stood, and started pacing the small clearing. "How could you not tell me this!?" he cried, stopping in a threatening stance over his father.

John rose to his own feet, as did Dean. "Because I don't believe it," he answered passionately. "I'll **never** believe Mary would do such a thing!"

Sam turned slightly to face his brother. "_You_ knew this?" he demanded.

John answered before Dean could. "Dean always thought we should tell you. We've had more than one fight about it." He reached out to touch Sam's shoulder, but Sam stepped away. John let his arm fall heavily to his side. "I've had Bobby keeping an eye on Demon activity out here; he gets regular reports from the West Coast network."

Sam paled in the moonlight, wrapping his arms around his torso and shivering. "My God," he said in a monotone. "That's why you're suddenly ready for me to get back into hunting. You think he's coming for me."

John was tempted to hang his head, but forced himself to look his youngest in the eye. "I'm sorry," he said, knowing how inadequate the words were — yet also that there was nothing else to be said. "I'm sorry."

**End, Chapter 10**


	11. Chapter 11

**Blast from the Past**

**by FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer:** All things Supernatural owned and operated by CW, Eric Kripke, et al.

**Chapter 11: What the Hell?  
**

Dean expected Sam to be angry with him — and he was right. At least Sam wasn't immature enough to give John back his sleeping bag; rather, he simply moved the bag to the far side of the clearing, as far away from both of them as he could get. Dean glanced at his father and then started to follow. "Sammy…"

Sam turned, freezing Dean in his tracks with one of the expressions he usually reserved for the cross-examination of a witness he was trying to break. "Leave. Me. Alone." he warned, and Dean decided that probably wasn't such a bad idea — at least for a few hours.

Once in the sleeping bag, Sam turned his back on them. Eventually Dean and John resumed their original positions, and the rest of the night passed silently.

Around 5 a.m., Dean retrieved a thermos from the backpack he had worn into the woods, in addition to carrying the weapons duffle. It was a serious, "hunter's" thermos, and it kept liquid hot for hours. Even though the coffee inside had been made over six hours earlier, it was still piping hot. In the additional light of an incoming dawn, John saw what Dean was doing, and opened his own pack. He had a similar thermos of water inside, as well as a small camping kit, and now he set about the business of stirring up some freeze-dried scrambled eggs for breakfast.

As John and Dean began to make their quiet morning noises, Sam rolled over in the bag. He regarded them for a few moments, then climbed out of the bag and started to step toward the woods. John saw him moving and called out, quietly, but obviously still startled. "Sam! Where are you going? It's dangerous out there!"

Sam didn't even look back. "Taking a piss," he answered. "I won't go far."

Despite his words to the contrary, Dean was nervous that Sam would decide to hike back out of the woods and disappear. He stood stiffly, pausing to massage his knees for a moment before crossing the clearing to the sleeping bag, delivering the thermos of coffee to John during his trip. Watching his brother take a leak was not on Dean's short list of things to do, but as he knelt to roll up John's sleeping bag, he peered anxiously through the trees. He was relieved on two counts when he spotted Sam's back — first, his brother hadn't taken off through the forest alone; second, he had his back to the clearing, so Dean wasn't scarred for life. Dean had finished rolling up the bag and was standing up again when Sam stepped back through the trees. Their eyes met, and then Sam looked away.

Before Dean could say anything, John spoke from behind him. "Gonna do that myself, boys. Be right back." Dean swiveled his head to watch John step through the trees on his side of the clearing, then turned back to his brother.

"I'm sorry, Sam. I tried to convince Dad that we should tell you everything."

In the morning light, Sam looked more depressed than angry. "He's not in charge, Dean."

Dean bristled. "Hunters have a hierarchy, based on experience. Yeah, when I'm with Dad, he's in charge. But if I go on a hunt with Garth, or one of the newer hunters, they look to me. That's the way it has to be, if you want to live through the hunt."

Sam rubbed his face, exasperated. "Life isn't a hunt, Dean! When he kicked me out of the family because I went to Stanford, and you didn't contact me for two years…" — he looked at the ground, took a breath, and fought for control. Then Sam looked back at Dean. "Eventually, I let that go — because you were young, too. You weren't your own man, yet. You're over 30 years old now, Dean — when are you going to start thinking for yourself?"

"It **was** the hunt," Dean argued. "Yellow Eyes is the **crux** of the hunt; that damn Demon is why Dad got into this life in the first place — and why I followed."

"Tracking the demon, trapping the demon, trying to destroy the demon — those are all hunting decisions," Sam countered, nearly shouting now. "But what Yellow Eyes said about me, Dean, that was FUCKING PERSONAL!" Sam emphasized his last words with jabs to Dean's chest, pushing his brother back a few feet — then he deflated, and his anger dissipated, leaving him with only fear. Embarrassed when his eyes began to fill, Sam whirled around to face the trees, his back to his brother. "If the demon comes for me, everyone around me will be in danger."

Dean swallowed, walking the few steps back toward his brother. "Kim and Tina had already left," he said, apologetically. "I guess I figured I had some time to make Dad see things my way."

Sam hung his head, thinking of Al, of their stolen kiss. "I might meet someone else…for all you know, I already have. It's not like I'm a monk."

Dean nodded. "I know you probably won't believe this, but I was going to tell you before we left, regardless of what Dad said. When you started talking about your cop friend, and mentioned that you might go to L.A. this summer to see Cristina…I could see that we had to tell you. I think Dad would have come to the same conclusion." He sighed. "Hell, I guess he did, last night."

Sam raised the back of his wrists to wipe at his eyes before he turned back around. "I don't know what to do now," he said brokenly.

Dean's heart broke for his brother, but he forced himself to smile. "All you have to do today is help hunt a hybrid," he answered. "One step at a time, Sam."

Sam nodded. "Okay," he agreed. "Okay."

John, safely hidden behind a tree, made some noise to signal that he was returning to camp, and his sons drifted apart. He couldn't believe he had let his life come to this, that he was a man who had to hide in trees and courtroom balconies if he wanted to feel part of his youngest son's life. He sighed as he bent over the tin of scrambled eggs, stirring the eggs and spooning a portion out for himself before handing the remainder to Dean. It was his own fault — he knew that. Mary would never believe it either, that he could turn into the hard, cold, man that he had.

Dean was offering Sam some of the eggs. John stabbed a bite with his fork and shoved his breakfast into his mouth almost angrily. At least the boys seem to have made peace, he thought, watching them across the clearing. At least they still had each other.

**SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN**

John held up his arm, the understood "halt" signal, and squatted on the forest floor, more closely examining the broken brush. His sons, trailing behind, followed the training ingrained in them years before; they stopped moving, and waited silently for further instructions.

The sun was high overhead now, although the forest was thick, and it was difficult to tell. Each Winchester wore a watch, however, and there was enough sunlight filtering through the trees for Dean to see, when he checked his, that they had been tracking the hybrid for nearly six hours. Quietly, Dean set his weapons duffle on the ground, and shrugged out of his backpack. Shifting the pack around so that it was facing him, he reached into an outer pocket and withdrew a protein bar. He turned slightly and silently offered the bar to Sam, who was just a few feet behind him. Sam frowned and shook his head, so Dean faced front again, twisting the pack around so that he could re-settle it on his shoulders. Watching his father, Dean ripped open the end of the package as quietly as he could, eventually squeezing the bar out and shoving the empty paper into the front pocket of his jeans. He bit off half the bar in one bite, then pushed the hand holding the other half blindly back in Sam's direction. His lips twitched with a smile when, after a moment, he felt Sam's fingers as his brother took the half-bar from his hand.

John rose from his crouch and turned around, coming back in their direction. Dean wiped his hand off on his jeans and waited.

John turned so that his pack was in Dean's face. "Get the stake," he whispered, and Dean reached inside of John's pack to withdraw the wooden projectile. John turned back around, taking the stake from Dean's hands and kicking at Dean's duffle. "Better get the axe ready," he whispered.

"What've you got?" Dean whispered back, while Sam bent to unzip Dean's bag and withdraw the silver-bladed axe, as well as his own 8-inch silver-bladed hunting knife. The knife had been a gift from John on Sam's 13th birthday, and he had kept it with him ever since. It was one of the few things he had taken with him to Stanford. This would be the first time, in over 15 years, that Sam had used the weapon as it was intended to be used; he had kept it largely for sentimental reasons. John's gift of the knife had signified two important things: first, his father had been home, and had remembered one of his sons' birthdays — Sam could count the number of his and Dean's birthdays when John had been both present and aware with fewer than all ten of his fingers — second, by giving Sam a hunter's weapon, John had been declaring Sam a hunter.

John watched Sam hand Dean the axe and palm the knife, frowning. "Sam stays here," he murmured. "The trail leads into another clearing — this is the largest one we've seen so far, and the far end tapers off into rock; we're getting closer to mountain range, and this could be a cave that the hybrid is using for shelter. The clearing is covered with tracks. I think this could be the lair."

"I'm coming." Sam could growl and whisper at the same time, apparently.

John took a step towards his youngest. "I will knock you out if I have to," he threatened.

Sam took his own step forward, so that the distance between father and son was reduced to a few inches. He seemed to tower over his father, even though John was only a few inches shorter. "Go ahead and try, old man."

Dean pulled his brother backwards, hissing angrily. "Knock if off, both of you! None of us can sneak up on anything if we start our own brawl six feet from the clearing!" He glared at Sam, leaned to pick up the duffle and shoved it toward Sam's midsection. "Dad and I will check out the clearing; neutralize anything we find. I'll call you when it's time for the holy water."

Sam's eyes shot daggers at him, but he accepted the bag in silence. John looked at him as if he wanted to say something else...then abruptly turned and started back toward his original position. Dean lingered long enough for Sam to whisper a somewhat reluctant "Be careful"; then he winked at his brother, and turned to follow his father. The two eldest Winchesters squatted at the entrance to the clearing for a few seconds, then pushed through the brush.

Sam waited as long as he could - which was probably less than half a minute. Then he moved to the clearing's entrance, where he knelt down, parting the brush so that he could see. Dean and John were halfway to the end of the clearing that ended in rock. Sam couldn't see a cave opening from his vantage point, but if his father and brother were continuing their careful, quiet approach, he figured they probably could. The two Winchesters worked their way around the perimeter of the clearing until they were about 10 feet from the rock. Then, John motioned for Dean to stop; and pointed toward the top of the boulder. Dean nodded once. Both men shrugged off their backpacks, letting them lie on the ground. Dean held onto the axe, moving in a crouch slightly to the left, looking intently at what must be the cave opening. John broke off in a crouch to the right, soon disappearing from sight for a few moments, back into the thickness of the forest. He must have found a way to start climbing toward the top of the cave; soon, the top of his head was visible - he was approaching the opening of the cave's from somewhere behind it, that Sam couldn't see.

Once John was perched on the edge of the rock, he nodded at Dean, then held up one finger. Sam swallowed as the countdown began, and John's index finger was joined by his middle finger. As his ring finger raised in the 3-count, John nodded again, and Dean began to shout.

"Hey! Fugly! Can hybrid's hairy ass come out to play?"

After a few seconds of silence, Dean tried again, louder this time. "Here, kitty-kitty-kitty!"

A shuffling sound came from inside the cave - then a roar. Sam shivered as the beast — not quite Wendigo, not quite human — emerged from behind a ledge of rock that was hiding the cave entrance from Sam. Dean had backed up another five feet or so as the first sounds began to come from the cave. Now, while the hybrid was still blocking the cave's entrance, Dean drew back his arm, sighted his target, and let the axe fly. The human part of the hybrid's brain processed Dean's intent, however, and the beast lurched to one side while raising a defensive arm, causing an unfortunate sequence of events. First, the axe missed its target — the blade still buried itself in fur and flesh, but it had missed the hybrid's heart, and was stuck in its forearm, instead. At the same moment as the hybrid's defensive move, John leaped from his perch above the animal, intending to bury his stake in its back — instead he just fell face-first at the feet of an enraged hybrid.

The Wendigo hybrid, howling in pain and frustration, paused long enough to rip the axe from its arm, and toss the axe to the side of the clearing.

The pause was almost long enough for John.

The unbroken fall to the forest floor had been nearly 15 feet, and John had been stunned and confused; knocked half-unconscious. Still, Dean's shout of panic and his own sense of self-preservation had kicked in. He rolled a few times, scrabbling to retrieve his dropped wooden stake, then began scrambling to get up. The hybrid was a blur of motion, moving faster than any human — in the time it took Sam to stand up, the animal plucked John off the ground with his wounded arm, and danged John in mid-air for a milleiecond, before roaring in anger and tossing John as far as it could — there was a sharp crack when John collided with the trunk of a tree.

Then the hybrid took a step toward Dean, who had reached around to the back of his jeans and pulled out a semi-automatic handgun, loaded with silver bullets soaked in holy water. Dean was unloading the weapon into the hybrid, but the bullets were barely slowing the beast down. As the magazine emptied itself of ammo, Dean heard something that frightened him more than the hybrid's howl; more than the sound of his father hitting the tree. He heard Sam's voice.

"Dean!" came from just a few feet behind him. "Drop, now!"

Once again Dean followed his training. With an enraged hybrid less than five feet in front of him, Dean dropped to the ground, looking up just as Sam's knife flew overhead.

Sam was out of practice, and the throw was high. The knife buried itself hilt-deep in the Wendigo's eye socket, causing the beast to scream in agony and stagger, but not fall. Sam was pulling on Dean's legs now, trying to get his brother away from the hybrid's path. The knife was gone, the axe was gone, Dean's gun was empty, and John was out for the count — the wooden stake had ended up in parts unknown.

Dean's hunter's brain processed all of this lightning fast; they were screwed, all of them, and he had to get Sam out of danger. He kicked against the hands grasping at him, trying to make Sam run for it; instead, Sam just came closer to Dean — and the hybrid.

The Wendigo hybrid, with sight only in one eye now, had lost some of its steam — but Dean saw with horror that another hybrid had responded to the howls of pain and anger, and had come to the mouth of the cave. Obviously past its prime — either old, sick, or both — the second hybrid moved as fast as it could toward the fracas.

Dean was still kicking at Sam, yelling "Get out!, Get out!" when the first hybrid got close enough to grab him. There was no time for deed or word, after that — the next thing Dean knew, he was bouncing off of his own tree, on the opposite side of the clearing from his father.

He hadn't connected with his head, so Dean was conscious when he hit the ground. The agony of a dislocated shoulder twisted him onto his back, and Dean looked desperately around the clearing for Sam.

When the injured hybrid snagged Dean, Sam started scooting backwards, emptying his Glock into the second hybrid, which had Sam in its trajectory. His regular ammunition did even less to stop the beast than Dean's treated ammo had, however. Sam was looking at the oncoming animal, paralyzed with fear — and watched, stunned, as the Wendigo hybrid burst into thousands of pieces, right before his eyes.

He blinked, wondering if he was dead already and dreaming, when there was another implosion from closer to Dean's location — the first hybrid had also scattered into thousands of fragments. For a few seconds, the clearing resembled a war zone in Beirut — body parts and blood were everywhere — then, one-by-one, all the former Wendigo bits began to dissolve.

The brothers locked eyes across the clearing. Sam was trying to find his feet, and go to Dean, when more movement at the mouth of the cave stopped him. He was crawling toward the abandoned weapons duffle to find something to battle this Wendigo with, when Dean's "What the hell?" stopped him.

Sam looked up, toward the cave — and saw a young woman standing there, smiling at him. She was short, dark, around his age — had she been held captive in the cave? Sam pulled the weapons duffle toward him, fear rendering him speechless.

Not so, Dean. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded.

She didn't even turn her head in his direction — just kept smiling at Sam.

"Hello, Sam," she said. "My name is Ruby. My father sent me."

**End, Chapter 11  
**


	12. Chapter 12

**Blast from the Past**

**by FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer:** All things Supernatural owned and operated by CW, Eric Kripke, et al.

**Chapter 12: You Can Take the Boy Out of Hunting…**

Sam had finally found his voice, but the words still came out as a whisper. "Your father?"

Dean was much more vocal, struggling to get up while holding his dilslocated arm close to his body. "What 'father', bitch?"

Ruby stopped her slow stroll toward Sam and turned her head to look at Dean. Her smile became a smirk. "I believe your term of endearment for him is 'Yellow Eyes'", she said, and then her own eyes became black.

"Sunova…" Dean began, almost on his feet now, but Ruby simply waved a hand in his direction, pushing Dean backwards a few feet, pinning him against the nearest tree, and stealing his voice.

The violent assault snapped Sam out of his shock, and he jumped to his feet, pulling the sawed-off out of the weapons bag as he rose. When he aimed the shotgun at Ruby, she laughed. "Go ahead," she invited. "You don't have what it takes to stop me."

Sam fired twice; when he saw the rounds pass through her as if she wasn't even there, Sam dropped the shotgun on the ground and started to move to Dean. Ruby held up a hand in warning. "You don't want to do that," she said. "I can kill him without even looking."

Sam stuttered to a stop in the middle of the clearing. Ruby again smiled, and began to walk toward him — but was distracted by John's body, still lying at the base of the tree where the hybrid had thrown him. "Let's see what we have here," she said casually, altering her trajectory. When she reached John, she leaned to look more closely at him, then stood and circled his body. Finally she sighed. "This IS a shame," she said, kicking at his shoulder, and rolling John onto his back. "Father wanted to do this himself. He had such plans."

Sam sank to his knees, eyes fixed on the sharpened wooden stake that John had fallen onto; the stake that was now half-buried in his chest. "No…" he moaned. "Please, no…"

Ruby laughed and stepped back into the clearing. "Daddy Winchester shouldn't fly when carrying sharp objects," she teased cruelly, then tilted her head. "Don't worry," she told Sam. "He probably didn't feel a thing — the collision with the tree broke his neck."

Sam tore his eyes away from his father long enough to look at Dean, who was still pinned to the tree, disbelief and anger warring on his features as he stared at John.

Sam looked up at Ruby. "Why are you doing this?" he begged. "What do you want?"

Ruby twirled a strand of long brunette hair around her finger. "Daddy's not my fault. The hybrid did that. As for the rest of it — destroying the hybrids, saving YOUR life, Sam Winchester — well, I have my orders. Can't let you get killed until my father is ready for you."

Sam was crying, now, looking at Dean again. "Please let him go."

Ruby looked at Dean, as if she was contemplating the request — then shrugged. "I don't think so. He was really rude to one of my father's other children — Meg — and you're the only one I have to keep alive. I can kill anyone else I want to." She laughed, her eyes going black again, as she lifted a hand in Dean's direction.

"**I said, Let. Him. Go." **Ruby hesitated, turned her head back towards Sam, and frowned when she saw that he was on his feet — and the sawed-off was pointed up at his own chin. "You want to go back to Yellow Eyes and explain what happened when I blew my own head off?" he challenged. "Release Dean now, or I promise you, that is what you are going to have to do." He put his finger on the trigger.

Ruby snarled, the sound inhuman. "Fine," she growled, lowering her hand. Dean slid down to the base of the tree, then immediately began trying to stand again. "I'll even fix that pesky shoulder," Ruby said. Another quick flick of her wrist, and Sam could hear the sickening pop as Dean's shoulder slid back into place. Dean screamed at the sudden pain, and Sam started moving towards him again.

Ruby let him go. "Try not to miss me while I'm gone," she said. "One of us is always near." With that, she vanished from the clearing; Sam stumbled in surprise, and stopped to look around.

By now, Dean was on his feet and moving, his shoulder painful, but not inhibiting his rush to John's body. He slowed down enough to grab Sam by the arm as he passed — then they both hurried to the edge of the clearing, dropping to their knees as soon as they reached John.

"Dad," called Dean softly, his hand hovering uncertainly over the end of the stake. "Dad?"

Sam's immediate attention had gone to John's head, which lie at an unnatural angle on the forest floor. John's eyes were wide open, seeing nothing as he stared at the sky. "He's gone, Dean," Sam whispered, falling back onto his heels. Horrified eyes met horrified eyes, as the two brothers stared at each other, their father's body between them. "Dear God…he's gone."

**SPN * SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN**

Sam had hiked three hours back toward Portland before his phone began to receive a signal again. Now he sat in an open area almost too small to be considered a clearing, waiting for Garth, and remembering the moments following his father's death.

"_Dear God…he's gone", he had said, looking at his brother._

_Dean shook his head, lowering his gaze to John. "No," he whispered, pawing clumsily at the stake protruding from John's chest. "We'll take it out, we'll just take it out…" — he glanced up quickly at Sam, then back down at his father — "…help me take it out…"_

_Sam reached out to still Dean's hand. "It won't help," he said gently. "Look at his neck, Dean."_

_Sam fell back on his haunches and watched Dean tenderly cradle their father's head. He wondered briefly why neither of them was crying, and eventually attributed it to shock. After a silent minute had passed, Sam spoke again. "What should we do?" he asked. "I don't know what to do."_

_Dean looked up at him in a rage so sudden that it took Sam's breath away. "Haven't you done enough?" Dean growled. "You called us out here on this stupid hunt in the first place!"_

_Dean looked back down at his father and Sam felt the tears he had been missing pressing at the back of his eyes. He shook his head. "I never…Dean, you know I would never…"_

_Dean didn't even look at him when he interrupted. "What do I know, Sam? I know that you've been fighting with Dad most of your life. I know that the peace between you two was always fragile, at best. I know that the both of you made my life miserable every time I had to tear you apart. And I know that you called us here."_

_Sam grunted as if he had been gut-punched. "God, Dean," he whispered brokenly, and Dean finally looked up again._

_At first his expression was still enraged; then regret and horror passed over his face. "I didn't mean that," he said quickly. "Sammy, I didn't mean that…"_

_But Sam was climbing to his feet, running a hand through his hair as he looked around the clearing. "We need another hunter," he said, ignoring Dean's apology. He glanced toward the trees where the three of them had first entered the clearing. "Garth is still in Portland," he murmured, turning to walk toward those trees. "I'll hike back that way until I pick up a phone signal, and I'll call Garth."_

_Dean continued to kneel on the ground beside their father. "Sam," he said, but his brother just kept walking. Dean swallowed, watching Sam push through the trees and into the forest. Dean stared after him, and spoke once more. "Be careful…"_

Now Sam brushed his hand across his eyes and remembered. He had heard his brother's final "Be careful", and he told himself, not for the first time, that the things Dean had said to him before that were born from pain and shock. He thought again of his father, and fresh tears welled, then ran unchecked down the planes of his face. "I hope he knew I loved him," he whispered.

Just then Garth, with a hunter's silence, pushed through the brush and appeared before him. Sam looked up from his position on the ground, and Garth extended a hand to help him up. "What happened?" the other hunter questioned.

Sam quickly wiped his eyes again, then took Garth's hand and levered himself to a standing position. "The…the hybrid, it…wasn't alone." He shook his head. "I'm not sure — I was watching Dean part of the time — Dad was thrown one way, and Dean the other. They both hit trees…Dad…Dad broke his neck, and…" — he shrugged and swallowed, seeing again the stake protruding from John's chest — "well, you'll see…" he finally finished lamely.

Garth winced, shaking his own head. "Damn. John Winchester was the best hunter I ever worked with." Then he changed the subject, speaking sharply. "What about the hybrids? And Dean?"

"Dean's…okay, physically," Sam replied, not meeting Garth's eyes. "The hybrids are…taken care of…Dean can tell you…we need to get back there."

Garth clapped a hand on Sam's shoulder when the taller man turned away from him to head back into the forest. "Let's go," he agreed. "And Sam…I'm really sorry about John."

Sam just nodded. _I am, too_, he thought, pushing through the brush and following his own earlier tracks. _I am, too._

**SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN**

It was nearing dusk when the two of them reached the clearing.

Pushing through the foliage, Sam saw that Dean had taken off his jacket, and covered John's face with it. His brother was walking out of the cave; Sam looked at him quickly, and just as quickly looked away.

Garth was shrugging off a backpack. "Dean," he greeted. "I'll help however I can. I brought a hunter's shroud with me, if you want to take your jacket back." Dean nodded silently, and the two of them met over John's body.

Sam followed a few steps behind Garth. "A hunter's shroud?"

Dean reclaimed his jacket, looking at his father one last time, then nodded at Garth. He stepped between his father's body and Sam. "It's what Dad wanted," he said to his brother, taking him by the upper arm. "Come with me, Sam."

Sam let himself be dragged across the clearing, toward the cave. Dean flicked on a flashlight as they entered, and Sam looked around, surprised. He had expected a Wendigo's cave to be messy — littered with bones, and leftover food — but this one was spotless. There was still a pungent odor; after all, two hybrids had been living here — but the cave was even cleared of the brush that should have been there naturally. "Did you clean the cave?" he asked, confused.

Dean suddenly shut off the flashlight, and the two of them stood just inside the entrance of the cave, in the near darkness. Sam was startled, but Dean's hand was still warm on his arm, so he wasn't afraid. "Sam," he heard Dean say, "I'm sorry I said what I did. I want you to believe that."

Sam felt a modicum of relief — but he was old enough to understand that even words spoken in despair and agony often come from a kernel of truth; part of Dean believed what he had said. Still, Sam accepted the apology for what it was. "I know," he replied. Dean still hadn't let go of his arm.

His brother now coughed once to clear his throat, then spoke again. "Dad and I…", he began,"we've been hunters. For years."

Sam scrunched up his face in confusion. "I…know," he said again.

Dean continued. "We talked about this — about what to do, if one of us didn't make it through a hunt."

Sam considered. What wasn't Dean telling him? "Okay," he finally said.

Dean sighed, finally letting go of Sam's arm. "Sammy…Dad wanted a hunter's funeral."

Sam shifted. "So, what? Do we call Bobby, and he puts out the word in the community, or something?"

He could feel Dean shaking his head beside him. "No, Sam…a hunter's funeral…he didn't want to be susceptible to anything, to come back as a vengeful spirit, or maybe even worse. He didn't want to become something other hunters would have to hunt."

Sam was starting to get a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. "So what does that mean?" he asked softly.

Dean's reply was in a voice just as soft. "It means that Garth is wrapping him in a shroud right now. When he's done, the three of us will move Dad's body into this cave, so that normal forest animals don't come after him tonight. The three of us will stay out in the clearing, and keep watch." Sam nodded, hoping Dean could sense the movement in the dark cave. He didn't trust himself to speak. "In the morning," Dean continued, "we'll burn him."

Sam bolted from the cave, Dean following quickly. Midway through the clearing, Sam found his voice, and turned to face his brother. "You'll burn down half of Oregon!" he accused.

Dean kept his voice calm. "That's why I cleaned out the cave. Ordinarily, it's done outside, with a funeral pyre…but you're right, that would be too dangerous. So we'll…we'll start the fire deep in the cave, and the three of us will be out here to make sure nothing gets out of control. We have a lot of holy water with us…"

Garth had finished with John's body and now approached the brothers respectfully. "And I packed in a small fire extinguisher," he offered helpfully. "We probably won't need any of that. Dean and I have done this before…for other hunters."

Now Sam felt sick again. "Dean," he all-but pleaded, not even sure what he wanted to beg for.

Garth took a step closer, holding out his hands in the near-dark. "I thought you might want these," he said, and the brothers looked to see John's watch, a wedding ring, and a battered wallet in Garth's hands.

Sam took a step backwards. "Oh, my God," he groaned. Dean didn't look anxious to accept the offerings, either.

Garth pulled back his hands. "I'll…put them in John's pack," he said, and neither brother argued with him. Garth nodded silently, then looked around the clearing until he spied John's discarded backpack near the mouth of the cave.

While Garth was walking toward the pack, Dean glanced at his now-shrouded father, then looked back at his brother. "He loved you, you know," he said. He grinned, a little bitterly. "You frustrated the hell out of him sometimes, but he always loved you."

"I'll…try…to do what he wanted," Sam answered, after a few moments of silence passed between the brothers. "I'll try, because I loved him, too."

**SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN**

Garth, a wet bandana over his mouth and a small fire extinguisher in his right hand, disappeared into the smoky cave. The brothers Winchester stood silently side-by-side in the clearing, and waited. Several minutes and one empty fire extinguisher later, Garth coughed his way into the clearing again, where the sun shone brightly in a sort of cosmic insult to the darkness of the day. "It's done," he said. "Fire's completely out."

Dean nodded twice, then leaned to pick up the backpack at his feet. He shrugged it onto his shoulders as he straightened, then helped his brother settle his own pack on his back. While they were doing this, Garth crossed to his own pack, put the empty fire-extinguisher inside, then swung the pack around towards his back. He was still shrugging to settle the pack as he walked up behind Dean and Sam. Sam bent to pick up the weapons duffle while Dean leaned to grab his father's pack. "Let's go," Dean said, feeling the weight of John's pack in his hand. He tightened his grip and led the trio toward the edge of the clearing. "Let's get the hell out of here."

**End, Chapter 12**


	13. Chapter 13

**Blast from the Past**

**by FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer:** All things Supernatural owned and operated by CW, Eric Kripke, et al.

**Chapter 13: History Repeats Itself**

_It's amazing how easy it is to snuff out a life_, mused Sam. He was sitting outside the county jail, on the same bench from which he had called Dean less than two weeks earlier, and thinking both of his father — and himself.

_Because Garth had been hiking back to Portland with them, Sam and Dean had not been able to talk freely on the journey back to the city — frankly, Sam had been okay with that. He needed some time to think, and to process what he had witnessed…and heard…back in the clearing._

_Dean had apparently been doing his own share of thinking. When the trio paused just beyond the running path, waiting for the perfect opportunity to sneak back out of the forest without attracting undue attention, Dean had spoken lowly to Sam for the first time since they had left the clearing that morning. "I need to go to Bobby's," he murmured. "I don't want to tell him this over the phone."_

_Garth shot out onto the path first, then doubled back to keep curious citizens and law enforcement distracted, if necessary. Sam didn't answer his brother until the two of them were safely on the path, headed for the patiently waiting Impala. "Give me one day," he said._

_Dean glanced at him and frowned. "Whaddya mean? One day for what?"_

"_I'm coming," Sam informed him, and Dean stopped still in his tracks._

"_You're not," he replied, his tone of voice inviting no argument — but Sam gave him one anyway._

"_Dean, you heard the same thing I did. You saw the same thing I did. That…thing, that demon…she said there's always one of them near me. I can't subject the people in my life to that. I have to go to Bobby and lay it all on the line — tell him everything Dad told me, everything this…Ruby…told me." He squared his jaw. "I understand if you don't want to be around me either, I guess — but with you or without you, I'm going. Until I figure out what's going on, I can never be free again."_

_The path completed a gentle turn, and Dean took a moment to think before he answered, trying to come up with another way out for his brother — but he couldn't. "You're right," he finally admitted, voice full of defeat. "Damn, Sammy, we never wanted this for you. Dad…Dad's plan was to find out what he could on his own, so that you would never have to know. Even he didn't want you to give up the life you fought so hard for, the life you always wanted…"_

_Sam nodded brusquely. "I'm leaving the day after tomorrow, and I'm going straight to Bobby," he said. "If you don't want to be around me, that's my timeline — you've got a day-and-a-half head start, if you want."_

_The two had reached the parking lot now, and Dean paused at the front of the Impala. He touched his brother's shoulder with his own. "I'm not afraid of no stinkin' demon," he deadpanned, and Sam looked down at him, eyebrows raised._

"_Or all his little friends?" he questioned._

_Dean shook his head. "Nope," he answered, then he resumed walking around to the driver's side of the vehicle. He looked at Sam over the roof of the Impala, and his voice resumed its former seriousness. "I'm not sending you out there alone, Sam. We're all we've got, now. I have no intention of losing you, too."_

Now, on the bench, Sam swallowed at the memory. He had spent the morning with Donna. In a few short hours he had signed over his power of attorney, and detailed an explicit set of instructions for his now-former secretary. She would liquidate the practice, and spend the three weeks he still had left on his lease cataloguing and selling almost everything in his house — he would only be taking his weapons and a few bare necessities with him. After all these years, he still remembered what life was like on the road. Donna would use proceeds from the sales to settle all of his outstanding accounts — if anything was left, she was to set up a trust, with the beneficiary of "Sam Witherspoon" — this was the name on the set of fake I.D. that Dean had made for him the night before. The poor woman was dismayed and heartbroken — but Sam was sure she could be trusted; just as he was sure he would not endanger her any longer, now that he knew that he was a ticking time bomb.

After his morning with Donna, Sam had deactivated his iPhone, and had stopped at a convenience store to pick up something pre-paid, with a new phone number that Cristina would not know. His heart hurt when he imagined the little girl calling him and getting no answer, when he thought of her heartbreak when the man she knew as "daddy Sam" just disappeared on her — but he was counting on her youth to save her. Eventually, she would forget the life she and her mother had once had in Portland…and she would forget him. She had to.

"Winchester." The soft voice interrupted his thoughts, and Sam looked up into the gentle smile of Sgt. Allison McSweeney. "Fancy meeting you here. I was just heading out to lunch."

Sam shifted to one side of the bench. "Can you sit a minute, first?" he asked.

McSweeney's smile faltered a little as she lowered herself to the bench, taking in Sam's well-worn jeans and flannel shirt. "Is it casual Friday already?" she teased.

Sam's simple "No" caused her to lose her smile entirely, and she was frowning a little as she asked her next question.

"What's up? I tried to reach you over the weekend, but your phone was out of service."

Sam raised both hands to hold her face, only inches from his own. "You're so beautiful," he said, immediately angry with himself. This wasn't how he intended for this conversation to go.

Before he could lower his hands, Al raised her own, placing them gently on top of his own. "You're scaring me a little, Winchester," she said nervously.

Trapped as he was, Sam did the only thing that seemed natural — he leaned forward to touch her lips with his own. The kiss was less wild and frantic than the one on the running path had been; it was slow, gentle — and final. They both felt it as the kiss broke, their hands — entertwined now — dropped to the bench between them, and they pulled their heads apart. Al's eyes were glistening as she stared at him. "Sam?" she whispered.

"I'm leaving Portland," he said, and she jerked back in surprise, pulling her hands from his.

"When?" she asked. "For how long?"

"Right away," he answered truthfully. "Maybe tonight — and I don't know when I can come back. If I can come back."

"Why? What's wrong?" There was genuine anguish in her confused voice, and Sam couldn't help himself. He raised one hand to trace the outline of her cheek, and her eyes closed.

"It's a…family emergency," he said. "I have to leave now, and I'm not sure how things will…work out." He let his hand drop to the bench, again. "I can't ask you to wait for me, but I also couldn't let you think you don't mean anything to me. I had to come to say good-bye."

Allison opened her eyes again, and they shone brightly with unshed tears. "I can't say anything, do anything to stop you? We can't talk while you're gone?"

He shook his head. "A clean break is the most I can give you. I don't want to string you along, leave you hoping for something that may never come to pass."

She looked down at her lap, blinked, then looked back up at Sam. She smiled wryly. "Take your Glock, Winchester. In case you run into trouble."

"Good idea," he answered. The two of them sat silently on the bench for a few minutes longer. Finally, Sam stood. "Good-bye, Al," he said quietly. "It was a pleasure knowing you."

She smiled up at him, even though her heart was heavy. "Backatcha, Winchester. Be careful out there."

He nodded once in agreement, then turned his back on Allison McSweeney, and Portland, and the normal life he had once believed was rightfully his. Sam squared his shoulders, and started down the sidewalk. He was heading for his brother, and for Bobby, and for whatever Yellow Eyes had in store for him. He was both hunter and hunted, now, and he was back in the life he had left behind so many years before.

History repeats itself.

**End, Story**

**A/N:** Yes, this story is open-ended, begging for a sequel. In all honesty, I doubt that a sequel will come from The Cat. While I will probably still indulge in the occasional SPN oneshot, when Sam and Dean force me into it, I sincerely doubt that I will ever attempt a multi-chapter fic in this fandom again. I see this story's "hits" and "favorites", so I know that there is an audience out there; albeit a mostly silent audience. I do write in large part for my own pleasure — which means that things I write do not require posting, in this fandom or anywhere else; looks like we are all very lucky about that, when it comes right down to it.

At any rate, my thanks to those of you who read my little tale, whether or not you chose to share the fact that you were reading.


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